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There are some people you meet for one evening over relaxed movie viewing, Jungle book, healthy snacks, some banter, spilled chips, distracted but lovely conversations, and somehow they stay with you longer than people you’ve known for years.

I met Anjali and Simon like that.

I met them the way real life introduces the people who quietly change you, over a casual outing in Bengaluru society, relaxed viewing event, while their son Dexter and their twin girls rocked happily to the sound of music, fascinated by movement, vibration. And somewhere between the laughter, the sensory toys, calm movie watching, small tight group, the half-finished conversations interrupted by parenting, and Dexter’s unmistakable delight at the world around him, I realised something uncomfortable about the rest of us.

And perhaps that is the first thing Dexter has taught them, and now, unintentionally, taught me.

That some children are not here to fit into our noisy world. They are here to reveal how noisy we have become as a society.

Before Dexter, they admit they had imagined a very different future. Like every parent does. Then came the diagnoses. First Down syndrome. Later autism. And with it arrived the private grief parents rarely confess aloud because society only permits two acceptable emotions from them: bravery or inspiration.

But grief exists too.

Shock exists. Fear exists. Confusion exists.

Not because they loved their son less. But because suddenly the future became unfamiliar terrain with no map, no language, and far too many opinions from strangers.

Anjali told me something that stayed with me long after the evening ended, she wishes diagnoses were delivered with more hope.

Not pity. Not catastrophe. Not whispered tragedy. Hope.

Because somewhere along the way, society decided disability must automatically mean devastation.

Yet sitting with Dexter, what struck me most was not limitation. It was presence. This little boy notices textures, sounds, vibrations, movement, water, music, light. While the rest of us are busy refreshing our phones and planning five years ahead, he is fully committed to the joy of this exact second.

Simon says parenting him taught them that connection is not always verbal. Sometimes a glance, a hug, a tiny routine, or a shared laugh carries entire conversations inside it.

And honestly, in an age where families sit at dinner tables scrolling separate screens, perhaps the neurotypical world should be taking notes.

Of course, love does not magically erase exhaustion. That is another truth parents like Anjali and Simon rarely say out loud because they fear sounding ungrateful.

Their lives are filled with therapies, appointments, forms, sensory regulation, educational battles, financial planning, emotional balancing, sleeplessness, routines, constant vigilance, and the invisible mental load of asking one relentless question every parent of a special child secretly carries:

“What happens to my child when I am no longer here?” It is the kind of fear that quietly lives beneath ordinary mornings.

And yet, somehow, there they were that evening and on many movie outings, still laughing, still making room for friendship, still ordering food, still discussing future plans while preparing to return to the UK.

Life, as usual, refusing to pause for anyone.

What moves me most in my new growing friendship with both of these lovely humans and their lovely kids is how little self-pity existed in either of them.

Neither wants sympathy. In fact, both almost resist it. Again and again, they returned to the same idea, Dexter has not made their lives smaller. He has expanded them.

He made them more compassionate. More patient. More aware of how differently human beings experience the world.

More accepting of progress over perfection.

More capable of joy in tiny things most of us overlook completely.

And that word, expanded, stayed with me.

Because inclusion is often spoken about like charity. Something generous people do for “those families.” But after meeting Dexter, I suspect inclusion is less about helping special children enter our fast paced world… and more about whether we are evolved enough to enter their human world “Paced in kindness” and dignity.

The younger twin sisters are growing up in a home where empathy arrived early. The kind of children who instinctively slow down when Dexter needs regulating, who celebrate tiny victories other families may overlook, and who have learned that communication is not always verbal. One may naturally become the playful entertainer, singing songs, pulling him into games, making him laugh during difficult moments, while the other quietly watches over him in public spaces with the fierce alertness only sisters possess. Not out of burden, but out of attachment.

What struck me most was that the girls did not behave like children “sacrificing” their childhood for a sibling with additional needs. They behaved like sisters. Loud, affectionate, occasionally impatient, deeply protective sisters. And perhaps that is the healthiest thing of all, when inclusion becomes so natural inside a family that it no longer feels like effort, only love with different rhythms. Watching the twins around Dexter was quietly moving. There was no performance to it. No saintly sibling energy social media loves to romanticise. Just familiarity. One adjusted his headphones without being asked. Another pulled him excitedly toward something she knew he would enjoy. They seemed to understand instinctively that love sometimes looks like translation, helping someone else feel safe inside a world that can often feel too loud.

Anjali and Simon speak about playgrounds where children stare. Public spaces that overwhelm sensory systems. Schools that still confuse accommodation with inconvenience. Families exhausted from fighting for rights that should already exist. Parents becoming therapists, educators, advocates, carers, administrators, and crisis managers simultaneously. Quietly. Repeatedly. Without applause.

They do not want miracles.

They want ramps.

Accessible toilets.

Inclusive classrooms. Teachers trained in neurodiversity.

Sensory-aware public spaces. Shorter therapy waiting lists. Basic respect.

Most importantly, they want what every parent wants: For their son to grow up loved, safe, included, and allowed to exist without constantly proving his worth.

That should not be revolutionary.

And yet somehow it still is.

What I admire most about both of them is that they refuse to reduce Dexter to “special” in the patronising way society often uses the word.

He is simply a child. A funny, sensory-seeking, music-loving, deeply human child navigating a world not designed with him in mind.

And maybe that is the real test of civilisation.

Not how loudly we speak about inclusion online.

But whether a child like Dexter can enter a restaurant, school, playground, airport, classroom, or birthday party and feel he belongs there without his parents bracing themselves first.

Whenever I catchup with them, I always notice Dexter light up at something most adults would not even notice, movement, sound, rhythm, connection. Pure uncomplicated delight. And I remember thinking: Perhaps the luckiest people are not the ones raising “perfect” children.

Perhaps the luckiest are the ones whose children quietly teach them how to become better humans.

Maybe one day, years from now, when the twins are adults navigating careers, relationships, and homes of their own, they will realise Dexter gave them something the world struggles to teach even grown people, how to notice vulnerability without discomfort, difference without judgement, and humanity without conditions.

Anjali and Simon are tired sometimes. Worried often. Overstretched almost always. But watching them with Dexter, there was something else too.

Tenderness without performance.

Love without conditions. And in a world increasingly obsessed with achievement, productivity, perfection, and appearances, that felt unusually sacred.

So this week’s entry from the diary of the Luckiest Girl is not about glamorous success stories or curated lives.

It is about a little boy who loves music and rain.

Two parents learning courage in real time.

Two little sisters learning empathy before algebra.

And a reminder to the rest of us that inclusion is not kindness.

It is civilisation.

There are people who pass through life, and then there are people who become the emotional architecture of an entire family. My mother belongs to the second kind. She did not merely raise us; she built the atmosphere in which we learned how to live, how to love, how to trust, and how to return to ourselves when life became difficult.

As Mother’s Day and her birthday arrive together this year, I find myself returning not to one grand memory, but to thousands of small, glowing moments stitched together so tightly that they became my childhood itself. Mothers like my mum do not merely raise children; they alter the emotional climate of entire generations. Even now, I measure safety by the memory of her footsteps moving through a kitchen before sunrise.

When I think of my childhood, I do not first remember a house or a city. I remember a feeling. When I think of my mother, I think first of safety.

Not the loud kind. Not dramatic declarations. But the quiet, unwavering certainty that someone was standing behind me, watching over me, carrying more than I understood at the time. She was my shelter long before I knew the world could be harsh. She was my first understanding of strength that did not need applause. She was my shelter long before I knew the world could become unkind. The safest place I have ever known was not a house or a city, it was simply being near her.

She is the reason I still believe people are fundamentally good.

She taught us that family was not limited to the walls of one home. Love, according to her, was expansive. Elastic. Meant to include cousins, aunts, neighbors, friends, guests, and anyone needing a seat at the table. She allowed my aunts to pamper me endlessly, and in doing so, she quietly taught me one of the greatest truths of life: we are not sustained by achievement nearly as much as we are sustained by relationships. A web of people constantly feeding, helping, checking in, showing up, laughing loudly, and carrying each other through difficult years. We do not survive alone. We are held together by webs of care, generosity, memory, and showing up for one another again and again.

Today, mothers of my generation read articles, save reels, buy parenting books, learn therapy language, and exhaust ourselves trying to become twenty different things for our children all at once. Emotional regulators. Memory makers. Safe spaces. Nutritionists. Cheerleaders. Homework managers. Mindful communicators. What amazes me now is that our mothers, without ever naming any of these things, practiced so many of them instinctively. They did not call it “creating emotional security.” They simply woke up every morning and repeated love consistently enough for it to become the architecture of our lives.

Our lives were modest, but you would never have known it from the abundance she created around us.

She made spectacular cakes shaped with imagination and love. She hosted parties large enough to include everyone we knew. She celebrated birthdays, festivals, exam results, tiny milestones, and ordinary weekends as though joy itself deserved ceremony. There was always room for one more person, one more cousin, one more plate at the table. She had the rare gift of making people feel wanted.

She made abundance out of ordinary life. In her hands, modest homes became gathering places, simple meals became celebrations, and tired children became people who believed the world would eventually be kind to them.

And somehow, she did all this while carrying responsibilities that would have exhausted most people. Modern families spend fortunes trying to “create memories.” Our mothers somehow created magic from very little. One special Sunday breakfast. One drive for ice cream. Cousins sleeping in crowded rooms. Steel tiffin boxes packed with care. New clothes folded for festivals. Excitement over absolutely ordinary things. They understood instinctively that joy did not come from luxury nearly as much as anticipation, repetition, and togetherness.

Family, for my mum, was sacred work.

A sibling’s request was never dismissed. Help was never measured by convenience. If someone needed something, she showed up. We were taught to pull our own weight, to be responsible, to contribute. And if we rebelled or made poor decisions, she did not waste energy chasing us with endless lectures. Instead, she allowed consequences to teach us. There was strength even in her silence.

Some of my most tender memories are astonishingly ordinary.

The first five minutes after waking up as children always began the same way: with milk brought to us before the day properly started. She insisted on sleep, consistency, nourishment, and health long before “wellness” became fashionable. She was a walking reminder that caring for a family is often hidden in repetitive, unglamorous acts no one applauds enough.

Only now, as an adult, do I understand how much of parenting is protection disguised as persistence. I did not realize then that being constantly checked on, fed, waited for, and worried over was a form of wealth. Some children inherit property; I inherited emotional shelter.

And yet during exam seasons, that same disciplined woman would quietly appear beside our beds late at night carrying snacks and milk shakes because she feared we might fall asleep hungry while studying.

That was her contradiction, structured yet soft, strong yet endlessly nurturing.

Only now, as a woman myself and parenting teen, do I understand how much love hides inside repetition.

The older I grow, the more I understand that her love was never loud performance. It was repetition. Milkshakes during exam time, extra salad on the plate and waiting awake for the sound of us returning home.

Today people speak beautifully about “mindful parenting” and “being emotionally present.” But our mothers practiced presence in far less glamorous ways. They came home tired and still asked about our exams, our friends, our plans for the next day. Even exhaustion did not stop their attentiveness. Love often sounded like practical instructions shouted from kitchens:

Eat before you leave.
Take fruit.
Don’t skip meals.
Message when you reach.

We laugh about these things later in life only because they became so constant we mistook them for ordinary.

She came to a new city from Kerala with almost nothing except courage, resilience, and the support of her sisters. I still do not fully understand the caliber of strength that required. She built a life from uncertainty while smiling through struggles that could easily have hardened someone else. She and my father created our home from the ground and made it a place where both of us siblings thrived tremendously. Even when my father had to leave his job early because of his lifethreatening illness, she somehow protected us from the weight of financial fear all those years while bearing the mental load all alone. We completed our education never fully realizing how thinly stretched she truly was. There was no dramatic speech about sacrifice. She simply carried it.

At the time, my brother and I quietly began helping where we could. I started taking tuitions. My brother worked after college to support some of his own expenses. We understood instinctively that home needed us too. Yet even during those difficult years, she remained the same person who sat beside effort and encouraged perseverance, who celebrated every honest attempt at doing our best. She never pressured us to become extraordinary or compared us to any of our peers. She simply asked us to be responsible and sincere. And perhaps that is why we grew up with confidence instead of fear.

Our childhood was rich in the ways that truly matter. We were loved not just by our parents, but by an entire ecosystem of aunts and uncles who treated us like their own children, a direct reflection of the bonds our mother nurtured throughout her life. Their affection gave me confidence as a young girl. It taught me I was worthy of care, worthy of attention, worthy of belonging. Even today, I carry that invisible security into rooms she has never entered herself.

Our parents’ generation did something quietly extraordinary. They allowed children to slowly discover adulthood instead of over-managing every emotion and every mistake. We were allowed boredom. Cousins. Wandering. Responsibility. Consequences. We learned competence not from motivational speeches but from participation in family life itself.

Long before I learned confidence from the world, I borrowed it from the way she loved me, completely, casually, and without ever making me earn it.

She taught us joy was not reserved for luxury.

It could be found in an ice cream outing on our fathers yellow Bajaj Chetak, a weekend tandoori chicken meal, cousins squeezed together in noisy rooms, festivals celebrated enthusiastically, or simply everyone eating together after a long week. After working exhausting days and managing impossible schedules, she still came home asking about our friends, our plans, our next day. She was always emotionally present, even when physically exhausted.

That may be her greatest gift of all.

Presence.

Not perfection. Not performance. Presence.

My mother has always been deeply giving, fiercely resilient, emotionally honest, and incapable of being fake.

She could make life light for others even while carrying overwhelming burdens herself. She is warm, affectionate, nurturing, and endlessly generous, yet also fiercely vocal against injustice. She does not quietly accept being taken for granted. Even when life has been unfair to her, even when she has been physically overwhelmed or emotionally exhausted, she has continued to show up with grace and strength. That balance, softness without weakness, is something I admire more deeply as I grow older.

She celebrates small wins. She loves loudly through food, concern, repetition, reminders, and showing up, even while she quietly suffers her recurrent belittling sensitive stomach flare ups over the last two decades. She never stopped being her real self. Even now, she remains the emotional backbone of our family, the person behind so much of what is good in us, especially for me.

And perhaps the strangest, most beautiful thing about adulthood is realizing you are slowly becoming your mother.

I hear it in the way I care for people. I see it in the way I celebrate small moments, feed others, worry about loved ones, create warmth in spaces, and hold our family together even when no one notices the effort. I see glimpses of her in me. The older I get, the more I understand that the best parts of me were first practiced by her.

Complicated, yes. Often absurd. Sometimes unintentionally hilarious. But not tragic. If anything, I have always considered myself deeply fortunate. Because despite every difficult season, I was raised by a woman who made life feel survivable. Perhaps that became my way of surviving too. This is only the first part of the story. There are still a thousand moments left to tell. A thousand ways she carried us, protected us, strengthened us, and loved us into becoming ourselves. But if I had to say one thing today, it would simply be this:

My mother is a living reminder that love is not only something we feel. It is something we do, consistently, quietly, courageously, over an entire lifetime.

And because of her, I remain what I have always been:

“The Luckiest Girl On The Planet.”

Every home has a rhythm. Ours has a soundtrack. Teenage sighs that feel algorithmically generated, a Gen X father who speaks in short, durable sentences built to survive recessions and emotional storms, my voice delivering extended director’s cuts of conversations no one formally commissioned, and a cat who meows in at least seventeen emotional registers.

At the centre of it all are my husband and our daughter. A father shaped by a pre-digital world, where patience was learned by waiting, not scrolling and a teenager growing up in a hyper-connected universe where identity is curated, feedback is instant, and mistakes live forever as screenshots.

And then there’s me, the mother, moving around the scene with empathy, logic, herbal teas, backup plans, emotional readiness, and a deep commitment to being helpful even when help is clearly not required and mildly resented.

This is not a perfect household. It is a deeply involved one, just differently involved. And that difference matters. Mostly because it means at least one adult in the room is calm while the other is Googling “Is this normal?” at midnight.

Teenagers today are growing up in a world far louder and faster than the one we knew, a world where their brains are still loading while the internet is already judging the final version. According to a 2021 Pew Research Center study, Gen Z reports significantly higher cognitive and emotional load than previous generations at the same age.

Gen X parents, like us, especially my husband, often respond not with commentary, but with steadiness. I respond with words. Many words. Sometimes all the words. Together, unintentionally, we form balance. Or at least a functional emotional Wi-Fi network.

Cancel Culture, Breakfast Edition

Teen friendships today can dissolve before breakfast and reassemble by lunch. One wrong emoji, one misunderstood pause, one “seen” without a reply, and suddenly the social ground feels unstable, like emotional Jenga, but with witnesses.

The morning my daughter announced she had been “cancelled,” I reacted the way mothers have evolved to react, immediately and thoroughly. I offered empathy, analysis, counter-strategies, historical parallels, and what can only be described as a TED Talk titled Friendships: The Director’s Commentary (Extended Cut, With Footnotes).

She stared past me. Spirit buffering. Soul loading. Eye contact absolutely unavailable.

My husband, who had been listening the entire time, silently absorbing data like a human cloud backup, looked up from his toast and said, “Cancelled by whom? People who forget their passwords every week?”

She laughed. The crisis dissolved. My TED Talk was quietly shelved, possibly for a future audience that will never exist. That was his involvement: quiet, precise, perfectly timed. Like emotional punctuation.

Research from the University of California (2020) shows that Gen Z processes emotional stress more effectively when humour reframes the problem before analysis begins. My husband doesn’t speak much, but when he does, he regulates the room. I flood it. Together, we somehow get it right, like a very odd but effective emotional sprinkler system.

Confidence Is a Sentence, Not a Paragraph

Teenagers today don’t lack information; they lack certainty. They are constantly told how to be better, brighter, faster, thinner, smarter, preferably all before dinner. When she asked, “Do I look okay?” I responded with reassurance, and options. “Yes! But maybe change the shoes. Or the top. Or the posture. Or the expression. Or….”

She had already emotionally exited the conversation, possibly relocating to another dimension. Her father glanced up once and said, “Nice. You look like you know where you’re going.”

Her shoulders straightened. He had said less. He had done more. I took notes I will absolutely forget to follow.

A 2019 Journal of Adolescent Health study found that teens build confidence fastest when feedback affirms identity rather than appearance or performance. Gen X fathers, in particular, tend to offer fewer words with higher emotional accuracy. My role is to care loudly. His is to anchor quietly. Our daughter benefits from both, even when one of us is internally screaming.

The Emotional Factory Reset

Teen emotions today are amplified by visibility. Feelings are not just felt, they are shared, judged, archived, and occasionally resurfaced years later at inconvenient moments. When someone called her “too sensitive,” she collapsed onto the couch, fingers pressing her temples, as if trying to reboot her teenage life to factory settings.

I arrived with empathy, nuance, and language that could qualify for a group discussion, a breakout session, and possibly a panel. She remained unconvinced.

From the balcony, her father said, without looking up, “That’s usually what people say when they don’t want to take responsibility.” She paused. Looked up. Absorbed it. Firmware updated.

A 2021 Harvard Graduate School of Education report shows that emotionally intelligent parenting prioritises naming emotions without over-processing them. My husband’s restraint is not distance, it’s discernment. I bring the emotional colour. He draws the clean, confident outline. Together, we make something legible.

Opting Out Is a Modern Superpower

Today’s teens are invited into every argument, every opinion, every digital firestorm. Silence is mistaken for weakness. Boundaries are treated like glitches. As school WhatsApp groups erupted, I suggested breathing, journaling, hydration, muting notifications, and possibly moving to a remote island.

She rolled her eyes. Her father said, gently, “You don’t have to attend every argument you’re invited to.” Relief washed over her, like someone had just cancelled a meeting she never agreed to attend.

A 2023 Common Sense Media study found that teens experience lower anxiety when parents model selective engagement. My husband doesn’t shield her from the world, he teaches her how to step back from it. I remind her to feel. He reminds her to choose. Between us, she learns discernment, not avoidance.

Fixing Drawers, Building Adults

Teen independence doesn’t come from motivation speeches. It comes from doing, usually while slightly annoyed. On Fix-It Saturday, a drawer broke. I suggested replacement, upgrades, reorganisation, and possibly a minor life reset. The cat knocked over a vase. On purpose. While making eye contact. Power move.

My husband handed her a screwdriver. She held it wrong. He corrected her and said, “Congratulations. You’re now an adult.” She fixed the drawer.

A 2018 OECD life-skills report confirms that hands-on problem-solving builds resilience more effectively than verbal reassurance alone. My husband’s involvement is practical. Mine is emotional. Together, we raise a child who can feel deeply and function capable, even under feline scrutiny.

Failure Is a draft

Today’s teens fear failure because the world records it, timestamps it, and sometimes adds background music. When she fell short, I coached, reframed, encouraged. She heard none of it. Her father ordered dinner, sat beside her, and said, “This is not your final draft.” Nothing more.

A 2020 Stanford growth-mindset review shows that framing failure as iterative, not final, builds long-term grit. My husband doesn’t rescue her from disappointment. I soften the landing. He reminds her the story isn’t over. We tag-team hope.

The Team That Holds

Watching them, I realise something quietly extraordinary is happening, often while I’m mid-sentence. She is learning confidence without volume. Strength without hardness. Kindness without self-erasure. In a world shaped by AI, outrage cycles, and relentless comparison, this home, messy, noisy, emotionally invested, is a refuge.

We are in a new city now. New beginnings. Scratched furniture. A cat with opinions. But as long as there is presence over perfection, humour over fear, connection over control and two very different parents working as one imperfect team, the future feels intact. Messy. Human. Hopeful.

And our daughter, raised by a steady father, an expressive mother, and a deeply judgmental cat, may not realise it yet. But she is the girl born on the right side of love, growing up surrounded by love that listens, guides, and, crucially, knows when to stop talking.

Which makes me, her Mom, quite literally, “The Luckiest Girl on the Planet.”

At 49, I’ve finally cracked the riddle of life. Solved it. Understood it. Mastered it.

Or so, I confidently announced to myself, and then Instagram, that uninvited life coach, served me a book. You know the kind, the one that makes you pause mid-scroll and make a same day online book order. It was “Awakening The Heroes Within” by Carol S Pearson, on the 12 Female Archetypes.

Apparently, according to the book and its various insights, I’m a glorious mash-up of Creator, Sage, Huntress, and Mother. Which sounds epic. Mythical. Almost Marvel-worthy. Until you translate it into real life, where it simply means: I decorate cakes, write columns, chase stray dreams (and stray cats), and spend half my waking hours asking my teenager, “Did you eat?”

Let’s break this down, shall we?

The Creator aka The Woman With Icing Sugar in Her Hair

Archetype charts describe “The Creator” as innovative, artistic, visionary. In my life, that translates to: a woman who can spend three meditative hours sculpting a showstopper wedding cake, but will absolutely forget to close the main door after the last-minute Blinkit butter delivery for the salted caramel filling. Truth be told, I thrive when I’m making things, edible art, emotional essays, or experimental dinners that my family politely calls “interesting.” Creation energises me. Chaos follows me closely. The downside?. None.. or so I tell myself.

So looking ahead, I’m leaning in bravely, joyfully embracing this side of myself, and with slightly better lighting. If I’m destined to create, then I’ll create boldly: cakes that defy gravity, essays that defy aging, and, if the universe is feeling generous, abs that defy physics. Moving on.. to the next archetype.

The Sage

In-house Chatgpt in a Chef’s Coat, Nike Running Shoes, and a Heart worn on the Sleeve.

This is the archetype of wisdom, reflection, and perspective. Which sounds very serene until you realise it’s mostly me yelling, “Drink more water!” at my family like an emotionally invested hydration reminder. To my credit, I’ve turned life stories into columns, midlife hormones into punchlines, and marital misadventures into… well, publishable anecdotes.
I’ve realised that saying things out loud helps you accept your situation faster, and also shuts up the overthinking brain that insists on replaying conversations from 2013. It also helps that I thrive on hope.

Stubborn, ridiculous, essential hope.

The book states the Sage thrives on perspective. So my future plan? Keep sharing life stories, but with tighter edits. Think Oprah meets self-deprecating stand-up comedy, minus the billion-dollar empire, the book club, and the private chef. This leads us to the next archetype.

The Huntress

She’s fierce. Independent. Unstoppable.

In real life, she’s also the woman who trained for marathons until a dog mistook her leg for a chew toy. But Huntresses don’t quit. They limp dramatically, write about it, continue carving cakes religiously, and then sign up for more run events, preferably outstation ones, because pain feels more meaningful with a cold weather induced swelling allergy and trip to the ER.

Also most importantly, my Huntress energy is what’s taught me to say NO.
No to toxic people.
No to unpaid emotional labour.
And occasionally, a very spiritual no to answering the eternal question, “Will you be cooking this weekend ?”

Looking ahead, my Huntress plan is simple: keep running, sometimes literally, sometimes metaphorically, towards goals that scare me just enough to give me occasional mini victories that make me whisper, “Yesssss.”

And finally, the last one.

The Mother

The Mother / Caregiver: CEO of Snacks & Sanity

Archetypes call her nurturing.
I call her the woman with permanent under-eye circles who crawls into bed by 8pm like it’s an Olympic sport.

My teenager believes I’m an over-enthusiastic project manager of her life. An average workday at my Sugar Art Academy includes swinging between last-minute school crises, helping with English presentations, sourcing “power words,” and wondering over some chamomile tea at 6pm about why I haven’t sat down for a breather since I got up at 5am.

Truth be told, the Mother in me has been my anchor. Decorating cakes not just for customers, but for comfort.
Creating soulful corners at home so to snuggle in any room with a book break.
Checking in on friends like it’s a full-time job with no annual leave.

For the future, I’m however,  adding a clause: The Caregiver must also care for herself. Yes, self-care will now include face masks, naps, and saying “I’m busy” without guilt,

even if I’m just busy watching Netflix with the cat or rearranging my book shelves by “colour”

So, in Conclusion, Who Am I?

Well according to the good folks who wrote the book, At 49, I’m not just one archetype, I’m the entire circus.

A Creator dusted in flour and icing sugar.
A Sage with too many books and not enough shelf space.
A Huntress in running shorts with battle stories.
And a Mother who stocks the fridge with endless healthy snacks no one eats.

Looking forward, I’m choosing to continue embracing the chaos but this time with some mulled wine.

To laugh at my contradictions and inconsistencies.

To continue to create boldly, speak wisely, run fiercely, and love deeply.

Because who I am is not a single archetype. Who I am, is the woman who, despite the many roles, is still a woman becoming louder, softer, stronger, all at once.

That truth settled in as I come to the end of my column.

“I am who I am today, and I trust the woman I am becoming.”

Just saying it out loud feels like a “quiet victory”.

That is enough to makes me feel like “The Luckiest Girl On The Planet.”

I’m officially on the “Sorry, can’t, I’m busy…” train. And guess what?

My body has decided this is excellent news. Finally. She’s put down her protest signs(mostly), stopped whispering “betrayal” every time I double-book myself, and is now gently tapping her foot like, “Okay, but don’t test me.”

Yes-it is: When “Sure, I can!” is a Reflex My Stomach Hates

Some people catch colds. I catch guilt.

It’s not airborne, it’s inherited, conditioned, and reinforced by every polite smile and school award for “most helpful.”

My signature move? Saying “yes” to everything until my body throws a diva fit complete with migraines, sleepless nights, and dramatic stomach growls during silent meetings.

Apparently, “good-girl syndrome” isn’t merely a mindset, its a muscle memory of obedience.

It shows up like a relentless game of peekaboo, each symptom stranger than the last, bloating, headaches, insomnia, sudden urge to cry while microwaving oatmeal.

So much for “thriving in my forties”, my cortisol levels are doing CrossFit.

Now, my To-Do list looks like this: Banish guilt, delegate unnecessary PTA requests and call my body back from her field trip to“Chronic Exhaustion”

Why My “No Muscle” Went on Vacation

Where did it go? Why is saying “NO” harder than choosing a Netflix show?

It turns out my No Muscle is very, very out of shape.

Here’s what’s been weakening it.

Fear of conflict or rejection: Thank you, inner child, for reminding me that disappointing people = certain doom.

Why? Because somewhere, when the room gets tense, my conditioning is that women magically morph into Switzerland always the queens of “Rejection Sensitivity syndrome” and podium winners in “Conflict Avoidance Gymnastics.”

Chronic self-worth outsourcing.

People-pleasing: Which sounds like a nice thing… until you’re seething inside while getting nominated by all mom’s group to take all the teens to a movie trip as I was the only one who “worked from home”. Just for the record, managing the bunch of hormonal and energetic teenagers alone for those 6 hours was like choreographing an orchestra where the teens were like entitled musicians who only hear their own instrument and I’m waving my imaginary “baton” in hope for some harmony.

Plot Twist: My “No” Is Learning to Sizzle

So from now on, I’ve started saying “NO,” and guess what?, the world did not spontaneously combust.

Sure, my “NO” started weak, more like a whisper carried away by a light breeze, but she’s gaining sass by the day.

Behold the contents of my tiny “NO” toolkit.

I am learning, sometimes, the most powerful tool in setting boundaries is a simple phrase: “Let me think about it…” This small pause isn’t indecision, it’s a strategic moment to gather your energy, strengthen your boundaries, and maybe sneak in a snack or check your horoscope. It buys time and creates space between you and the automatic yes.

Saying no to the second favour of the day isn’t selfish, it’s self-preservation. There’s only so much energy in the tank, and sometimes that reserve is better spent on basic essentials, like showering or feeding yourself, rather than stretching yourself thin.

I even said “NO” to a group WhatsApp message asking for “one tiny cake” for a work event. One tiny cake = two hours of unpaid labor, emotional fatigue, and a frosting-induced wrist cramp. No, thanks. I sent a GIF instead.

The digital “Do Not Disturb” function is more than just a phone setting, it’s a declaration. It gently reminds the world (and maybe even yourself) that from 7 to 9 PM, your needs come first. The gentle reminder we all need, that you can love your people, but you’re also allowed to love yourself just a little more in that window.

Then, my favourite, journaling, without the pressure of grammar or perfection, is a form of emotional exfoliation. It clears mental
clutter, uncovers hidden feelings, and can be wildly cathartic, even if what comes out is occasionally a little messy or unexpected.

Optimistic Outlook: The Health Plan I Wrote on a Cake Napkin

This one came to me during a late-night sugar binge(whole box of mini strawberry Oreos).

Here’s what my new mantra sounds like,

Body first: If my liver so much as hiccups, I’m listening.
Small “nos”: Saying “NO” to “quick favours” that are neither quick nor a favour.
Real self-care: Not the Instagram kind. The “go to bed by 9:30pm ” kind.
Saying no with kindness: “Thanks, but not this time” is my new go-to.

Because when you stop saying “yes” to everyone else, you finally hear your own voice.

Final Note (from Me, andMy Now Chill Stomach)

No, I’m not becoming a hermit but I am protecting my body, my time, my joy, and my weekend mornings.

I’m reclaiming energy for things that matter.

2025 is the year I am finally learning to say “no” like it’s an art form. Maybe even a performance piece.

Because “no” isn’t rude. It’s radical self-respect.

Not the mumbled maybe-later-we’ll-see kind, but the crisp, fearless “NO” that once made my stomach knot and my palms sweat.

The “NO” that means I’ve stopped renting out space in my life to things, people, and obligations. Despite my condition, despite the good-girl wiring that still twitches at the thought of disappointing someone, every “NO” I speak is now an act of rebellion, self-preservation, and grace.

It’s the bravest thing I do now, sometimes in flats, sometimes limping, always with a steady gaze and because of those “NOs”, those tiny, unapologetic doors I close, I am consciously making room for the yes’es that matter.

Which is why, even on my wobbliest days, I am still, and will always be, “The Luckiest Girl On The Planet.”

Dear Body, Sorry for the Guilt

Indulge me as I unpack gently into this long over due open letter to myself, “Dear Body, long-suffering co-pilot in this grand, over-eager life, I owe you an apology sharper than my thousand well-intentioned “yes-es.”

You’ve been a saint, ignoring migraines, bracing chaos in shoulders bent under other people’s expectations.

While you whined to me at midnight, stomach in knots, heart whispering “rest”, I kept firing off yes’es like confetti. You, deserve better than my compulsive people-pleasing.

I’m sorry for every time I mistook your fatigue for weakness, I’m sorry for brushing off your quiet hold-on-to-me signals, pretending “I got this” even when the mirror winked back exhaustion.

But here’s the promise: no more collateral damage under the guise of kindness. Here’s to learning how to say “not today,” to give you rest, permission, and the chocolate (dark and dairy-free).

Thank you for keeping me upright long after my brain ran out of bandwidth. From this moment, I’ll speak to you in softer words,
hold you with kinder plans.

Dear Body, I’m sorry and  I’m listening now. And so, thank you for finally teaching me to say “NO.”

About the Author

Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37 to a slower and more intentional life. In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we prove, it’s something we shape with the decisions we take daily for our loved ones. She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India. She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spend hours pouring her heart out in these personal memoirs. Through her weekly personal memoirs, she shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes these memoirs are an honest attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is a 100 percent invested in her journey of “Becoming”.

It starts, like most of my family dramas, in the kitchen. There’s sunlight streaming through the blinds, filter coffee doing its sacred morning duty, and the unmistakable presence of judgment, in the form of our orange male cat, seated on the dining table like he owns the mortgage. Which, in a way, he does. We pay rent, taxes, and internet bills. He pays us in fur and emotional unavailability.  My 48-year-old  husband, still half-asleep in a “World’s  Best Dad” T-shirt, scrolls through cricket scores. I, his life partner, fellow soldier, unpaid therapist,  and co-parent, am holding a planner, a pair of toast tongs, and the last remaining shred  of my sanity. Our 15-year-old daughter strolls in with the confidence of Beyoncé and the helpfulness of a damp sponge. “Why don’t we have Nutella anymore?”  she demands, her tone implying we’ve failed her at the molecular level.

“Because daily Nutella now costs more than my first car,” I reply. “Also, the planet called. It’s sobbing.” She sighs deeply, the kind of sigh only teenagers are licensed to use. It’s the  sound of a soul burdened by housework,  parental expectations, and a Wi-Fi speed drop of 0.5 seconds.

 Welcome to Midlife Parenting. The  Musical, now streaming daily in our household.  Spoiler, the cat plays a prominent part.

The Great Entitlement  Epidemic (and Laundry  That Folds Itself) 

Raising kids used to be about love, safety,  and a decent lunchbox. In 2025, it feels  more like managing a customer  experience  team where the customers live with you,  eat your food, question your choices, and ask for a raise in pocket money every week.

My teen believes dishes should disappear  after use and that her bed has a self cleaning mode. She’s currently developing  what she calls “a personal brand,” which includes having strong opinions on almond milk, haircare ingredients, and why her mother is too obsessed with dish towels.

We’ve read all the research , that modeling  responsible behavior is key, that setting clear expectations and limiting privileges  help build gratitude, that chores instill empathy  and responsibility. We’ve tried them all but some days, it feels like we’re just raising a  very articulate customer who’s about to give us a 2-star parenting review on  Google.

Our Parenting Toolkit  (Includes Sarcasm and  Snacks) We’ve started assigning chores, praising effort instead of outcomes, and encouraging gratitude.

Results so far, she can now fry an egg,  she thanks Chatgpt more than she thanks  us and she once said, “Love you,  Mummy,” and I nearly wept into the dal.

We’ve adopted a new family policy, “Effort  over entitlement.” That includes cooking one meal a week, handling her own school bag, and not screaming  “WHERE’S MY WATER BOTTLE?” like a banshee five minutes before the school bus arrives.

There are days I think we’re doing alright.  Then she asks, with a completely straight  face, “Why do I need to learn how to  sweep my room when I’ll probably just  hire  someone later?” Cue my husband’s nervous coughing.  Cue me, Googling boarding schools in the  Himalayas. Just to look.

Meanwhile, the Cat Has Opinions Our ginger Indie cat, Cookie, has seen it  all. He came into our lives during the  Bengaluru deluge 2022. Since then he  has evolved into a a spiritual guide, alarm  system, and sarcastic life coach rolled into  one orange furball. He watches our parenting attempts with the disdain of a  thousand emperors. He has zero patience for emotional meltdowns and even less for chore negotiations and will be seen perched on the tallest inaccessible tier of the house where he would safely nap through lectures. When he does decide to  descend, he would have knocked over stored margarita glasses for sport, and with an accurate sixth sense have a  cuddle session with the pile of freshly laundered clothes.

Then there are other times, when we’re  sitting in silence, post-meltdown, post whining, post-Netflix binge , he curls next  to  us with a soft purr, as if to say, “You’re doing fine, humans. Feed me.”

Raising Royalty: Life with a Teen Who Believes  They’re the CEO of the  House 

My husband and I didn’t sign up for parenting during the era of AI tutors and mental health reels on Instagram. We were just  two kids who fell in love, watched Kal ho Na Ho ten times, and thought a baby would be cute. 20 years, 2 jobs, one business, and several emotional haircuts later, here we are. He does the school drop-off after his morning gym workout with the speed  of an F1 pit crew. I handle emotional crises, lost socks, and the weight of everyone’s dreams.

We have strategic meetings in the car. We flirt via shared WhatsApp memes on the  “next big hack for modern homes . 

Now our Idea of romance is exchanging glances over the teenager’s eye-rolls. We are learning, the hard way, that raising a child isn’t just about shaping her future.  It’s about reinventing ourselves, every.  single. day.

Survive the Teen Years  Without Faking Your Own  Disappearance 

The turning point came last month when I  put up a “Chore Chart of Empowerment” on the fridge. It had glitter borders and everything. My daughter looked at it like it was written in Kanadda. 

“I have to clean my room every Wednesday?” 

“Yes.” 

“Its “vocal training day”, I have to be in a  spiritually free space, Not fair!” 

“Then you can vocalise and explain  yourself to the dust mites.” 

She didn’t speak to me for 45 minutes.  Bliss. 

That week, she vacuumed while singing  “Too sweet” and later was seen journalling  “Adulting isn’t cute. It’s dusty.” Progress.

The Secret to Thriving  (Not Just Surviving) 

We don’t have all the answers. Some days, we run on caffeine, sarcasm, and the faint hope that our daughter will someday thank us in her Nobel Prize speech. 

But here’s what we’ve learned. Model the behaviour you want to see.  Even if your teen pretends you’re invisible.

Set boundaries and enforce them. Kindly.  Consistently (With snacks).

Don’t overindulge. Gratitude grows in the  space between “No” and “Let’s figure it  out together.” 

Empathy matters. So does laughter. And yes, praise the effort. Even when the  mop was held so precariously it looks it  like it might bite. 

The goal isn’t perfection. It’s raising humans who know they matter and who know others matter too.

Epilogue: In Praise of  Midlife, Motherhood, and  the Mess 

Tonight, we sat together husband, teen,  me, and the cat. We watched an old sitcom. My husband fixed the curtain train motor for the living room. My daughter took the trash out (after being asked only three times). I made tea and didn’t cry once. 

We’re not raising an entitled child. We’re raising a real one, messy, hilarious,  moody, brilliant, and still learning. Just like us. 

And somewhere in this chaos of spills,  chores, hugs, eye rolls, and cat hair, we’re slowly building a legacy: not of perfect parenting, but of love, resilience, humour,  and a family that never gives up on each other. Even if the nutella runs out.

About the Author

Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37 to a slower and more intentional life. In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we prove, it’s something we shape with the decisions we take daily for our loved ones. She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India. She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spend hours pouring her heart out in these personal memoirs. Through her weekly personal memoirs, she shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes these memoirs are an honest attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is a 100 percent invested in her journey of “Becoming”.

Sugar, once the life of every party, it’s now the shady character lurking in ingredient lists. The Voldemort of health conversations.

Eyes widen. People gasp.

One avocado toast warrior clutches her heart monitor.

It’s the one we dare not name in wellness circles unless we’re whispering “natural sugars only” or “just dates and monkfruit.” And as the founder of Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, where we make edible masterpieces with, you know, actual sugar, I’m basically a criminal with a piping bag, piping frosting directly into my clients arteries but before you write me off as the Willy Wonka of insulin spikes, let’s slow down the rolling pin.

Let’s be honest.

Somewhere between the rise of protein powders and the fall of actual food joy, sugar, my lifelong muse, business partner, and occasional therapist, became the villain. If sugar were a person, it would have been ghosted, cancelled, and blocked faster than a unsolicited WhatsApp forwards.

How Did Sugar Become the Villain?

Blame the clickbait.

One week, it’s “Sugar is the new smoking,” the next it’s “Sugar is aging your face faster than your child’s math homework.”

“SUGAR = SLOW DEATH” screams one article.

“One pastry a day keeps happiness away,” declares another.

So, is it really sugar, or are we all just looking for a scapegoat while binge-eating low-carb almond flour cookies that taste like regret?

Let’s look at the data before the frosting flies. According to a 2022 Harvard study, excessive added sugars, think soda, candy, processed snacks, can increase risk for obesity, Type 2 diabetes, and cardiovascular disease.

Key word: excessive.

The same research, however, notes that sugar in moderation, especially when paired with active lifestyles, is not the ticking time bomb it’s been made out to be.

According to the WHO, adults should limit added sugar to less than 10% of daily energy intake, ideally even 5%.

The average Indian adult, however, is consuming far more: around 19–20 teaspoons per day.

Who’s the Real Culprit? Spoiler: It’s Not the Cupcake

I once overheard a father at a party proudly say, “We don’t do sugar in our house.”

Their 6-year-old was licking ketchup off a plate like it was crème brûlée.

“Sir,… read the label”

So, while we’re demonizing sugar, can we take a moment to question:

Let’s talk about why sugar is getting flamed online and other habits sugar is quietly taking the fall for: Skipping meals and inhaling “energy bites” at 5 p.m. like a hangry bear. Overeating while distracted. The 2- minute noodles we pretend are “light dinners”?. Pretending all fruit sugars are evil and then eating three bowls of “keto kheer” made with chemicals you can’t pronounce. That “protein bar” that’s basically a Snickers wearing yoga pants?.

Demonizing birthday cake but drinking three “naturally sweetened” smoothies with more calories than 300ml of aerated cold drink.

Who’s Really to Blame?

People act like sugar personally showed up at their doorstep and injected itself into their bloodstream. No, dear reader, you walked to the fridge, at midnight, opened the leftover truffle cake box “just to check if it’s still fresh,” and left no survivors. That was you. That was also me on Thursday.

Let’s face it. Sugar didn’t break your willpower. Your job, your boss, and that one WhatsApp group with 246 unread messages did.

Sugar Abuse Is Real But So Is Sugar Blame shifting.

So, Who Exactly Should Worry? Let’s be clear:

If you’re pre-diabetic, insulin-resistant, or living a mostly sedentary life fueled by cola and couch time, sugar is a problem.

But if you’re a cake decorator on her feet for 14 hours, a marathon runner in carb debt, a teenage performer in back-to-back rehearsals, or a parent surviving being school PTM representative, urban traffic, and existential dread, that slice of homemade chocolate cake isn’t the enemy. It’s emotional first aid. Sugar is your emotional support system.

Emotional Support Chocolate Cake: Not the Villain, But the Mood Stabilizer We Deserve

Let me say it as a baker, mother, and human with emotions:

There is no heartbreak a warm chocolate cake can’t momentarily soften.

There is not one emotionally rough day that a square of chocolate doesn’t gently hug.

There is no fight with a teenager that a chocolate chip cookie can’t soften.

Basically there is no existential crisis that a soft sponge with buttercream can’t stabilize.

The Sugar Athlete (Yes, It’s a Thing)

Here’s a sweet twist: sugar is also fuel. Runners, cyclists, endurance athletes rely on quick-release carbohydrates for glycogen replenishment. That’s right. The same glucose molecule that got booed out of your detox group chat is powering marathons.

Brain fog? Low energy? Crippling deadlines? Sometimes a spoonful of dessert is not indulgence, it’s damage control. Even the average adult under chronic stress needs some sugar for serotonin regulation. Comfort foods are not the enemy.

They’re psychological first aid, And let’s not forget: joy is an essential nutrient too.

Unless, of course, your life plan was to be joyless.

In the Cake We Trust

Let’s talk soul science.

In moderation, sugar is not poison. It’s emotion, celebration, and when wielded responsibly, art.

As a Cake Artist, in the last decade itself, I’ve seen couples tear up as their dream wedding cake rolled in, brides texting me at midnight, still in their gowns, just to say thank you, crying happy tears.

I’ve watched a 6-year-old scream with delight over a “My Little Pony” cake covered in rainbow sprinkles.

A 10-year-old once looked at his Formula One cake and whispered, “Can I keep this forever?”

I’ve made tribute cakes for 80th birthdays, where every layer held a lifetime of memories and brought four generations around the same table, each slice a celebration of a lifetime.

I’ve trained over 100 cake artists at the Culinary Academy, aged from 17 years to 80 years old, who now create their own edible art, building unforgettable memories for their customers.

You think a green smoothie could ever do that?

No. Sugar did.

Bake It Till You Make It: My Strategy for Sweet Survival

So, What’s My Plan?

Glad you asked. As the founder of Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, I’ve chosen to evolve without erasing the joy.

I’m not here to debate insulin indexes or out gluten the gluten-free influencers.

I’m here to bake responsibly and teach sugar with sense and soul.

Like I always have.

I’m here to bring balance back.

To restore peace between taste and health.

To declare that cake is not a crime

At Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, we’re now offering:

Custom cakes with low-GI options for those watching sugar.

Introducing Smarter Recipes: We’re adding natural sweeteners (date syrup, monk fruit, jaggery where it fits), reducing sugar levels in recipes without killing the soul of the cake.

Balance is baked in.

Baking classes that teach you how to control portions, not eliminate pleasure. We at Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy are teaching the Art of Responsible Indulgence:

My classes are not about eating cake every day. They’re about mastering it like an art form, one slice at a time, shared with love, baked with science, and iced with intention.

Celebrate Cake as Occasion, Not Habit:

We’re re-training tastebuds. My cakes aren’t pantry staples. They’re rituals. And rituals are meant to be sacred, not daily panic decisions. Soulful designs that celebrate milestones, memories, and yes, moderation.

Call Out the Real Culprits:

Ultra-processed, artificially sweetened “fitness snacks” with zero joy and twenty chemicals?

No, thank you.

Give me a real cake made with love and clean ingredients over synthetic sadness any day.

Life Is Sweet (and So Am I)

Because the truth is: sugar doesn’t kill dreams or ruin lives, shame does.

Let’s stop making people feel guilty for enjoying dessert.

Some of the best moments in life, from first kisses to heartbreak sob-fests, end with dessert.

Birthdays, weddings and anniversaries are almost always accompanied by something sweet.

Joy is an essential nutrient.

And moderation? That’s the magic word between guilt and gratitude.

Final Crumb: Don’t Quit Sugar, Quit Extremes

Lets teach our kids that a chocolate cupcake after a tough exam is not a failure, it’s fuel for the soul.

Let’s teach our kids how to enjoy, not avoid.

Lets stop the sugar-shaming.

Yes, So let them eat cake.

Responsibly but definitely let them eat cake.

So here’s what I believe:

Let’s keep sweetness alive, in moderation, in art, in our memories

So, eat the cake. Bake the cake. Share the cake. Just don’t live on the cake.

As Julia Child said: “A party without cake is just a meeting.”

Good thing I’m the heroine with a piping bag, a plan, and a frosting-fuelled dream.

Here’s how I’m reclaiming sweetness.

In a world trying to go sugar-free, I will be the frosting.

Soft, unapologetic, slightly over the top, but always celebratory.

If sugar’s the villain, I’m the cake mob boss and I’m here to negotiate a truce, and I am gonna stay for a while, piping sugar roses that taste like memories.

Meanwhile, let the haters detox.

So here’s to sweet things, served in sensible portions, with love.

After all, Life is short. Eat the good cake. And if you ever feel guilty… come bake with me.

I’ll show you how to make it worth every bite.

About the Author

Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37 to a slower and more intentional life. In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we prove, it’s something we shape with the decisions we take daily for our loved ones. She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India. She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spend hours pouring her heart out in these personal memoirs. Through her weekly personal memoirs, she shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes these memoirs are an honest attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is a 100 percent invested in her journey of “Becoming”.

Confession time: Not so long ago, I was a 40+ mom and entrepreneur, with a calendar so packed with coaching sessions, fitness consults, nutrition webinars, and school PTMs that I had started outsourcing, even my sighs. Not only that, I needed one woman on Zoom to remind me to breathe, a second to tell me to eat dal with vegetables on time, and a third, on a parenting webinar to coach me through real time teen talk. All while my cat judged me silently from his throne by the bay window. When did this shift happen? We used to be Gen X, the generation that did everything. Now we outsource things we used to call “daily life.”

Health? Parenting? Cooking? Outsourced, baby.

Back in the day, you lifted your toddler, your grocery bags, and occasionally your drunk colleague at an office party. That was functional fitness. Now we need wearable tech just to confirm we’re still alive.

We call it “self-care,” but honestly, it feels more like outsourced micromanagement.

In 2024, the global wellness industry hit a staggering $5.6 trillion. The fitness sector alone clocked in at $260 billion, that’s more than the GDP of Finland. And yet, global obesity rose by 10%, and lifestyle diseases climbed right alongside our gym subscriptions.

The Life Optimisation Racket

Let me elaborate.

Take my own example, once upon a time, I was a runner. Not the “jog-to-clear-my-head” kind, but the medal-earning, occasional trophy-winning, start-line-craving kind, who picked 6 AM sprints over lazy Sunday brunches. Then came the charming midlife glitch. My hormones started freelancing without notice, tossing in a fresh plot twist every 24 hours. My body had gone rogue, without permission, switched operating systems and the new ones didn’t seem to support running or fitness apps. So , my “finish lines” have started looking like discomfort, surviving mood swings, and paying a subscription fee to a smiling woman named Anita, who cheered me on for doing four squats while yelling, “You’re crushing it, girl!” through my AirPods. For the record, Dear reader, I was not crushing it. I’m just trying not to pass out in my athleisure.

Rest? I Scheduled It Between Google Calendar and Existential Dread

I had an app that reminded me to hydrate. Another for deep breathing. One for gratitude journaling. And a meditation coach I ghosted on the regular. Even my rest was managed by digital assistants. My sleep tracker used to promptly tell me that I was failing at REM, and my step counter mocked me with a paltry 2,113 steps, most of which I racked up pacing during my daughter’s math tuition or frantically hunting for missing school supplies.

So Why Are We Still So Tired?

We’ve never had this much help. And yet we’ve never felt more depleted.

Why? Because while we’ve outsourced the actions, we’ve forgotten the instincts.

The instinct to rest. To say no. To feed our families without drama. To parent without a PhD in psychology.

Our mothers and aunts raised kids, made chutney from scratch, kept gossip fresh in the sisterhood, and still found time to crochet full blankets for every cousin in the extended family.

Me? I need two weeks’ notice to schedule a “Lifesaver”coffee meet-up with my bestie.

Because Comfort Is the New Oppression

Let’s be honest: modern life is so comfortable, it hurts.

Our kids aren’t fragile because they’re lazy, they’re fragile because the village is gone, and we replaced it with an app. They can’t tolerate boredom, discomfort, or delayed gratification. They need a curated environment to even fail in.

And we? We’ve outsourced their resilience, then act surprised when they melt down over the Wi-Fi going out.

My daughter had an athletic coach, a math tutor, and a YouTube algorithm that’s clearly more influential than me, and still, heaven forbid that she said, “good morning” without an eye-roll.

Back in the day, kids were raised with a glare, and the ever-present threat of public embarrassment.

Now? We throw around terms like coregulation, emotional scaffolding, and screen time audits.

We’ve traded scraped knees for curated childhoods.

We’re raising a generation that can’t tolerate hunger, frustration, silence, or waiting.

We’re outsourcing everything, except presence.

Really, Is this what thriving looks like now? Multitasking our way into micro-breakdowns?

The Myth of the Optimised Self

Last week, I made a simple moong dal veggie soup from scratch, and felt like I’d discovered fire. I even sent a photo to my husband at work. His response: “Wow! You cooked? During the week?”

I did. Without a meal kit, a diet chart, or spirulina powder. Just me, a pressure cooker, five ingredients, and a vague memory of how my mom did it, plus my cat, offering strategic death stares from the kitchen counter.

Then it finally dawned on me after 48 years of my existence and a hormonal crisis.

Turns out, we don’t need fancy detoxes.

We need memory.

We need simplicity.

And maybe fewer apps yelling “Calories!” every time we glance at a banana.

So Here’s the Real Talk

It embarrassing now even to admit, but its true, after trying everything else first, I finally stumbled onto the obvious and something that we have always known.

NO ONE is coming.

No one is going to eat your vegetables for you.

No one is going to teach your child to be kind.

No one is going to do your glute bridges.

Spoiler alert: The adult you have been waiting for?

It’s you. (Yeah, I was disappointed too.)

Finally, I understood I needed an immediate intervention. My own.

As I deleted almost seventeen apps from my phone in one ruthless purge, a strange lightness settled inside me.

I cancelled my teens activity weekend classes.The air around me started to breathe easier.

Our schedule?

Suddenly as open and full of promise as a fresh notebook on January 1st.

I realised, sometimes clearing out clutter reminds us that life isn’t always about having more, but about feeling free and aligned with what truly matters.

A quiet joy began to rise in me and in that hush, I realised had stumbled into something rare, the kind of light, untethered moment that makes you feel , against all odds like “The Luckiest Girl On The Planet”.

So now, I get up early. I try to cook my own meals whenever possible. I walk 20 minutes in the morning without fail. I do a few squats workouts for another ten. Lift weights, if it is a good day. And maybe, just maybe, I also muster up the courage to ask my teen how her day was and schedule some bonding time over the weekend.

Parenting is now slowly becoming presence and not a chore.

Healthy meals have become fuel, not a fuss.

No AI coach. No app. No yoga mat sponsored by a gut cleanse.

For us at home, that’s health. That’s life. That’s parenting even with all its manic chaos.

What if the answer was never more help and efficient outsourcing, but always our habits?

The habits of needing our own attention, our own presence. In our own life.

As you can see, I am done outsourcing my life and I am taking this win.

About the Author:

Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37, to a slower and more intentional life. In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we need to keep proving. It’s something we shape daily with the decisions we take for our loved ones. She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India. She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spending hours pouring her heart out in these personal weekly memoirs. She shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes her memoirs are her attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is just embarking on her journey of “Becoming”.

There are few things more sobering than realising you can’t find your glasses and your deadline is in one hour. This column is dedicated to one such weekend: a 24-hour rollercoaster of chaos, hope, malayalee lunches, misplaced eyewear, and reluctant maternal wisdom.

School Shenanigans

This week, I misplaced my reading glasses for the 426th time.

Spoiler: They were everywhere and nowhere. Much like my patience.

Starring: One teenager, one ginger cat, and one husband who believes “looking properly” means standing still and squinting.

It began innocently enough. A crisp Saturday morning. The kind of day where you wake up feeling vaguely optimistic, until reality slaps you in the face by lunchtime.

It was our daughter’s Term 1 PTM day. Also known in parenting circles as “The Hunger Games: Report Card Edition.” This was 10th grade, so both parents were summoned. My husband showed up, ready to be involved. Welcome to the party, sir.

We marched into school like well-dressed, emotionally repressed troops. My daughter’s class was on the third floor, a strategic decision clearly designed by school architects to weed out the unfit. Think Mario Bros. level 7, but instead of gold coins and powers, we got sweaty stairs and silent despair.

When we finally reached Class X-B, our daughter stood by her file like it was an abstract art exhibit, red ink everywhere, open to interpretation, definitely dramatic.

I placed my glasses on her desk and briefly got distracted.

My husband beats me and grabs the file first . Our daughter gives me a panicked look. I return her glare with an apologetic one.

As my husband reviewed her marks with a stoic nod, our daughter began to resemble a ghost attending her own academic funeral.

Meanwhile, the Teachers Were Lovely

To be fair, the teachers were wonderful.

Warm. Supportive. One even called my daughter “a quiet storm.” Another praised her progress in French. I grinned like a TED Talk parent.

We moved from teacher to teacher as the emotional temperature swung like a pendulum in a sauna: I played cheerleader. My husband played disappointed consultant. Our daughter? A Shakespearean tragic heroine trapped in a CBSE plotline. The more we praised her, the more she sank into an existential teenage doom spiral. Clearly, we were helping too much.

Lunch Therapy: Powered by Parotta

That emotional roller coaster finally came to a halt as we headed back home.

We finally agreed on one thing: It was lunchtime.

We went to our favourite place , a small, comforting Malayalee shack where the food comes with memories and the waiter knows our order by our face tilt. He took one look at our post-report-card exhaustion and skipped handing us the menu and rattled off the weekend specials : “Chicken fry, fish moily, parotta, appam, and stew?”

We smile. Yes, my friend. All of it. Feed the angst.

As the food arrived, something miraculous happened. A parotta-induced mood shift. My husband cracked a terrible joke, and to my horror, I laughed. Our teen daughter smiled. Smiled! She even ordered seconds. Dessert followed. My husband, who “never eats sweet,” devoured all three bowls of coconut pudding while saying, “Too much sugar, not good for health.” We said nothing. The man was in coconut heaven.

Flea Market Mayhem

Back home, the universe decided we hadn’t suffered enough. Our building was hosting a surprise flea market. Within minutes of us parking in the basement, we were swept into the local chaos. My husband bought his 100th workout T-shirt: “This one breathes differently.”

Meanwhile, My daughter was stocking up on hair clips like she was curating a museum exhibit: The Evolution of Accessories from 2012 to present. I bought nothing. Just hovered with bags in one hand and a migraine in the other, radiating silent judgment. By 4 p.m., we had finally entered our home and collapsed into blissful silence.

The Eye of the Storm

A 40-minute nap for the adults.

Novella and music for the teen.

Then chai and a mild crime series (Under-16 approved).

It was finally peaceful.

Until about 8:00 p.m. when my phone pinged loudly.

A calendar alert: “Submit column by 9:00 p.m.”

I blinked. Tonight?

Somewhere between that days emotional chaos and household diplomacy, my brain had clearly decided to log off and taken my deadline reminder with it.

Where Are My Glasses?

Panic mode activated.

I ran to my laptop. No glasses.

Not on the table, not in the bag, not on the fridge (don’t judge me, it’s happened before). Ten frantic minutes later, the house now looks like a low-budget crime scene. Pillows flung. Cabinets yanked open.

My panic escalating with every passing minute.

“Has anyone seen my black glasses?” I yell.

My husband sipped his herbal tea. “Don’t look at me. I never touch your stuff.”

My daughter: “Not me”

Enter: The Teenager’s Brilliance

Deep breaths, you got this Ancy!

Just as I surrendered to fate and prepared to complete my column with a zoomed-in screen and blind hope, my teen casually said,

“Don’t you have powered sunglasses?”

Of course. My spare ones.

I put them on. Midlife superhero mode: Activated.

There I was, at 8:30 p.m., hunched at the dining table, typing like a lunatic wearing black sunglasses. Cookie flopped beside me like an emotional support feline.

From the other room came the sounds of my husband and daughter giggling at the absurdity of me sitting indoors in black shades, flying fingers, and full chaos mode.

The Column That Lived

Somehow, the column was written.

My husband sent me a reel titled “Early Signs of Dementia in Women Over 40” with 3 laughing emojis.

My daughter hugged me goodnight and said something truly shocking ,“Mom you are intense and weird but badass with deadlines”, and just like that, my universe shifted. Move over, SRK. I just received a National Award equivalent, the only award that matters. A compliment from my teen.

Glasses: Found. Dignity: Questionable

Now in hindsight, losing my glasses felt like the perfect metaphor for how I navigate life these days: blurry, hopeful, slightly disoriented but still getting things done. Not because I see clearly but because even in my blurriest, half-blind, glasses-in-the-fridge days, life at home is unfiltered, real, and deeply ours and I wouldn’t trade that for 20/20 vision. That, dear reader, is why I remain The Luckiest Girl on the Planet.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to consult my teenager on the whereabouts of my missing coffee mug. I’m 73% sure it’s lying somewhere in plain sight. Along with my dignity.

P.S. The prodigal specs have returned. They were recovered from my daughter’s classroom, tucked away neatly inside her Term 1 file. Life has returned to its usual blend of clarity and chaos. Balance is restored and our family’s regular programming of mild confusion and strong chai has resumed as scheduled.

About the Author:

Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37 to a slower and more intentional life. In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we prove, it’s something we shape with the decisions we take daily for our loved ones. She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India. She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spend hours pouring her heart out in these personal memoirs.

Through her weekly personal memoirs, she shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes these memoirs are an honest attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is a 100 percent invested in her journey of “Becoming”.

A few months ago, at a dangerously honest Sunday brunch, a wine-swirling friend of mine, declared, “With great cuteness comes no responsibility.”

I laughed, of course I did, thinking it was a throwaway one-liner.

Now when I think about it, as I stare across my chaotic living room, where everything is in shambles except the charm levels of its inhabitants, I realise that was no joke. That was prophecy. A manifesto, even.

It Is Messy. It Is Hilarious. It Is Painfully Real.

I live with three outrageously cute beings.

A teenage daughter who can out-charm a Disney princess if it helps her negotiate a curfew for late-night K-drama binges.

A husband whose smile still works like a Jedi mind trick mid-argument.

A cat who behaves like he owns the property deed and my last nerve.

All three are masters of attitude, armed with unpredictable moods and highly trained in the ancient art of strategic need emergence, which begins precisely when I sit down with a cup of tea and a book.

Collectively, I call them: My Entitled Adorables.

The house rule is simple. The cuter you are, the less is expected of you in running this establishment. It’s practically a family constitution. Don’t get me wrong, I love them. All of them. I absolutely would chose this life all over again if given a choice.

Let me elaborate. My daughter. For instance. Fourteen going on fabulous. She looks like a Disney animation character who discovered lip balm and sarcasm. Every weekend begins with her melodic voice echoing through the house, “Mom, what’s for breakfast? There’s nothing edible in the fridge.” Cue me. Businesswoman, breakfast barista, reluctant self- appointed nutritionist, whipping up smoothie bowls or avocado toast before the clocks hits 9:30am, much like a contestant on “Nailed It: Hormonal Edition.” What follows. Disappointment. Eye rolls. I could enthusiastically serve her a five-course meal on heirloom china, and she’d still respond with a deflated shrug and say ,“Hmm. It’s fine, I guess.” There are other times she would flop onto the couch, post school and announce, “Mummy, I need to vent. You have to hear this. My life is basically falling apart.” Two hours later as she finally finishes her rant and goes to her room, I’m in full work panic mode, behind on a sugar flower mock-up for a wedding cake client and pretty much scrambling to finish. Anyways , she would remerge soon from her room, zen like charm on her face, and say, “Thanks, Mummy. You’re the best. Good talk today”, flashing her cool teen angelic smile and her characteristic hair flip as she walks away. Of course, I melt like coconut oil in peak summer season. Wait for the kicker? I ask her to clean her room before she starts her homework two minutes later and suddenly she’s weak with fatigue, quoting vague internet studies about teenagers needing more sleep for brain development. Just putting it out there that this is the same kid who once negotiated her way out of her weekend laundry chores with a speech that began with the line: “As a woman of the future, I must protect my wrists” It works. Each time. She knows it. She manages to weaponize it. Effortlessly.

Then there’s my husband. The man I married 20 years ago. Charming, funny, and unreasonably photogenic especially in vacation photos. We’re talking full SRK-level charisma. He has over the years mastered passive-aggressive domestic commentary, always disguised as gentle suggestions, “I’ve forwarded some links of some linen shirts I really loved. Order them whenever you get time… preferably before summer ends… No pressure.”

Or my favourite, when his baritone voice echoes through the house on weekends. “Where is the coffee powder” Followed by dramatic silence then “Never mind. Found it.” The irony is, Its exactly where its always been. Two shelves across from the portal to “Narnia” where all objects of his desire in the kitchen seem to disappear.

Another kicker! His love language? Domestic puzzles dressed as questions. “Are we ordering takeout again?” translation: Why haven’t you cooked today, my queen? Or even better, “Are those my Under Armour tees you are wearing?” translation: I will wear your running hoodies without asking , but how dare you touch my athletic wear? Treason! “

Then let’s not forget to mention his signature move: the Surprise Project Reveal. Always the night before our daughter’s term exam: “Oh, by the way, I have urgent travel this week. I leave 5am tomorrow morning, You will manage right? I will make-up to both of you when I’m back. Spoiler alert! He never does. His smile? Cuteness immunity, maxed out.

Then there’s Cookie. Our orange alpha feline. “The CEO of Nothing”. “The Lord of All Things Inconvenient.” He contributes zero to rent, expects six meals a day, full-time emotional validation, access to every closed door, and unconditional support during his existential crises between 3:30 am and 5:30 a.m.

He will meow directly into the depths of my soul via my eardrum daily at 3:30 a.m, scratch the new couch with glee, shed his orange fur on freshly laundered clothes, and knock over only the potted plant with the loosest soil, because why not redecorate with chaos? God forbid, I scold him? He will blink slowly like a misunderstood poet, stretch and purr like he’s composing a love sonnet for me. Five minutes later, I’m stroking his head. Apparently, I’m the unpaid intern in his furry kingdom. Enabler status, confirmed.

Last but not the least, there is me. The Designated Responsible One with a to-do list longer than the list of novels she keep buying but never manages to start. Solo entrepreneur. Domestic commander. Birthday rememberer. Grocery restocker. Emotional barometer. Life-support system for this entire loveable circus.

Regardless of my obvious burden, heaven help us if I even dare mention to them that I have a cake delivery and won’t be available for an extended period of time on a particular weekend. All hell breaks loose and the house transforms into a carefully choreographed domestic disaster. The vibe shifts from “Home sweet home” to a post-apocalyptic “ramen-and-crispy-peanut rave”. The wheels comes off the family bandwagon. Father-daughter lunches at 5pm and breakfast menus for dinner. No vegetables. No rules. No apologies. Complete emotional anarchy but with snacks.

Perfection Is A Myth And Control Is A Comedy

Yes, I get overwhelmed.

I monologue into the bathroom mirror like I’m auditioning for a Netflix dark comedy: “Would it kill them to feed the cat?

Take out the trash?”

“Must I truly manage the emotional climate and the snack inventory of this household?”

I often wonder when exactly I became the “ Operations Head of Absolutely Everything” at home and just when I’m teetering on edge, ready to submit my “Good Wife/ Motherhood Resignation Letter” something unexpected happens.

CUE:

My daughter runs up to me clutching the surprise Lububu doll I sneaked into her room as a pre-exam encouragement. She squeals, “Mummyyyyyy! love you to the moon and back!”, hair flip and all.

CUT TO:

My husband enters the room and hands me a surprise cup of his signature masala tea, crushed ginger and all that too in my special cup.

DISSOLVE TO:

Cookie, our Male ginger cat, sensing my unraveling, curls up beside me, purrs, and sighs like a tiny zen monk with a one amber-eyed blink.

And just like that… I melt. Again.

Let’s face it. Cute is a powerful currency in this house.

It’s an inside job, and I’m dealing with professionals at the top of their adorability game.

They know it.

They weaponize it.

I succumb. Every. Time.

And Finally: Understanding That The Mess Is The Part Of The Story

There’s a strange, beautiful rhythm to this madness. A pandora’s box of surprise school projects. Emergency costume hunts. Cat theatrics. If it is not my teen having a meltdown over the white kurta that has to be acquired asap for her school Republic Day speech the next day, then it is our orange male indie, Cookie, chasing invisible demons at 3:30 am and the cacophony of chaos that follows.

We may never star in a minimalist lifestyle blog, but my God, the heart of this place is gold. So I’m learning, slowly, with gritted teeth and the occasional glass of low calorie white wine, to lean into this chaos. I’ve stopped waiting for calm. It won’t come. This is our circus. These are my monkeys and I wouldn’t trade them, not for diamonds, not for silence, not even for some Louis Vuitton shoes.

The payoff? You might ask? Well, in knowing that when we stop trying to control the chaos and start laughing through it, life stops feeling like a job we’re barely qualified for and starts feeling like the hilarious, messy, wildly human adventure it truly is. In the realisation that perfection is a scam, and cute creatures may be terrible managers, but they make phenomenal companions. We learn that joy lives in ridiculous places. In burnt dinners and poker-faced compliments. In fur-tufted couches and meme-loaded WhatsApps. A million tiny, ridiculous, beautiful moments that make me believe, that I am after all, “The Luckiest Girl on the Planet”. So yes, in our home, lives are imperfect and chaotic and we have made peace with the fact that with great cuteness comes zero responsibility and thank God for that because if these adorable disasters did start pulling their weight around here? I might actually finish that dream 42K run, sculpt 6-pack abs, launch 100 sugar flower designs, write that romance bestseller stuck in my head or even discover inner peace. Well, Where’s the fun in that?

So pass me the lint roller. Refill my masala chai and let the cuteness reign.

(P.S. I’ll keep the chaos, thanks)

About the Author

Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37, to a slower and more intentional life.

In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we need to keep proving. It’s something we shape daily with the decisions we take for our loved ones. She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India. She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spending hours pouring her heart out in these personal weekly memoirs.

She shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes her memoirs are her attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is just embarking on her journey of “Becoming”.

November 2021, It was supposed to be a quiet long run, an early morning LSD on the soft sands of Goa, stolen during a family holiday. The sun had barely risen, the shoreline empty, my breath in rhythm with the tide. And then, out of nowhere, came the growls, low, menacing, multiplying. A fierce pack of stray dogs, territorial and unrelenting, emerged like shadows from behind beach shacks and trash heaps. Within seconds, I was surrounded, cornered, heart pounding, body frozen, instincts scrambled. What followed wasn’t just a physical attack; it was a rupture of safety, space, and spirit.

I walked away that day with bite marks, bruises, and a wound stitched across my sense of freedom.

“The Attack: A Silent Ambush”

It happened without provocation. One moment, I was chasing the sunrise on a beach run already having finished 18kms, the next, I was surrounded by terrifying growls, teeth, and fur. 5-6 stray dogs rushed from behind shacks and beach umbrellas. I remember the metallic taste of fear and the sharp ache in my chest as I bent over in shock and trying my best to shield my legs as they surrounded me. In the intense cacophony I realised one of them had bitten me, on my thigh. Then, just as suddenly as they came, the pack scattered. What followed was a silence. A silence filled with my shock and utter helplessness.

Onlookers continued their Sunday breakfasts, oblivious. A trinket-seller lady rushed over, pressed her hands to my wound to staunch the bleeding, and helped me drink some water. She stayed with me until help for me arrived. I was immediately taken to a local hospital. The doctor told me that a pack of five to six dogs could have done far worse. He confirmed the kind trinket-seller’s actions likely prevented greater injury on my leg wound. After cleaning and bandaging the wound, he cleared me with a stoic warning, “complete the full rabies-vaccine series ”

“The Aftermath: Needles, Exhaustion, and Unseen Scars”

This brief terrifying attack was not even long drawn out enough to justify the psychological aftermath that followed for me. Somehow it wasn’t just a series of medical treatments, long enduring bite marks, strong fatigue-inducing rabies vaccinations spread over the next 4-5 months but also a slow consistent unravelling of my belief in my ability to get back on the running track like before.

Suddenly, every decision to get fit, every weekend run started feeling heavy. My gut would tighten each time I reached any open running track. My eyes always scanning for stray dogs nearby. Being outdoors got exhausting , my neck and chest ached from constant tension. It got so bad, I just started avoiding run events and training sessions. I was always homebound. At home, networking for work started feeling tiring and ominous. Slowly unravelling into self doubt, I withdrew from my daughter too, afraid I would project my silly fears onto her. I silently watched peers thrive and my runner friends achieve various milestones.A sinking feeling stayed, that I was falling behind. I would only realise later that this bruise on my otherwise indomitable spirit would soon become one of my most important lessons as a female runner and as a mother.

“The Anatomy of Invisible Wounds”

In the slow, silent aftermath, filled with lethargy inducing vaccine doses, skipped races, and sleepless nights, I began to understand that the deeper injury and its ramifications.

A 2024 WHO India report estimates over 18 million dog-bite incidents annually, often in spaces where women find solace or fitness.

Internationally, a 2023 U.S. Runner Safety Report found 1 in 5 female runners have faced animal aggression or harassment.

2025 Global Runner Wellness Report: 57% of women attacked while running either quit or reduced outdoor activity for over a year; 68% reported long-term anxiety.

Especially for women runners over 40, many who are already emotionally attuned and carrying invisible weight resulting in the impact of this fear lingering long after the scar fades.

These statistics resonated with me. It was not about puncture wounds on my leg anymore, it became a fear psychosis. Reexperiencing anxiety, hypervigilance, and avoidance long after my physical wounds healed.

A 2023 Global Mental Health Foundation survey found women aged 45–55 take up to 40% longer than men to emotionally recover from such sudden physical trauma.

Studies show that trauma, particularly in women, is not just about survival, but about the stories we carry in our bodies, in our pace, in our hesitations.

This incident stripped me not only of running routes, but of self-confidence. I watched my upcoming marathons quietly slip away. Admitting that this fear had set in and redefined my relationship with open roads was both humbling and terrifying at that time. I realise now, for mothers, professionals, and midlife dreamers, like me, the pressure to “keep it together” made this psychological healing even harder.

And yet, in that terrifying rupture or attack , I would slowly come to see something else too, that I was lucky. Lucky to have survived. Lucky to not let one incident define my journey as a runner. Lucky to reclaim my space, even if it meant returning to the track, one trembling step at a time.

Somehow, such moments seem to arrive like uninvited guests, splitting your life into before and after. That beach run became a life altering experience that redefined my understanding of safety and resilience and shook my sensibilities to the core. More that I was ready to admit at that time. Little did I know it was a turning point, a moment that separated who I was before from who I would learn to become.

The Quiet Return of Light

Emotional healing demands time, compassion, and what I call a village of tenderness. People who show up without advice, who respect that grief comes in waves. For me healing was not linear, it was a mosaic of small kindnesses throughout that year, from so many who I call my inner circle.

One regular training weekend morning, as usual fear gripped my legs and I couldn’t lace up my shoes. I had loudly announced at home that I was skipping my workout again. My daughter who was already up, gently placed my sneakers at the door and said, “Mom, I am they’re na?” “Today, I will run with you.” That was enough to push me out of the door that day. In the weeks that followed she became my compass, steady, sure, reminding me that healing is possible when love runs alongside. She also signed up with me for each of my upcoming races that year and accompanied me for all training sessions.

“Grace at the Bend”

My bestie noticed too. Without questions, she invited me on unplanned morning walks, to Cubbon Park under gulmohars, to slow morning brunches on MG Road. We walked at my pace, laughter and banter intact as before. One cappuccino, one plate of Italian, once in a month plans, millions of laughs. Healing came to me easily, disguised as ordinary days. Her friendship unknowingly helping me carry what broke me.

“Patchwork Of Kind Gestures”

My mentors in Delhi saw the void too in my weekend photos, chats, and posts. They nudged me with run updates and kept checking in .Then came the call. “We’re flying down from Delhi. Sign up, we’re all running together the TCS 10km in Bengaluru.

I laughed. I hesitated. Eventually I registered.

As expected race day wasn’t fast. My breath was cautious; my legs, tentative. With every slow lap, every cheerful checkpoint, their concern, quietly carried me, across that finish line. Later that evening at the after-party with them, medals clinking, laughter shining, I felt lifted. Being with them and listening to their race banter reminded me of who I was, and who I could still be as a runner.

“The Wound, the Wonder, the Way”

The question that haunted me long after the bruises faded was simple and persistent: Why did the pack of dog attack me? It felt personal, almost existential. Slowly, through conversations with animal behaviourists and quiet hours of reading, I began to understand that it wasn’t about me. It was about survival. Urban spaces like beaches, though idyllic to us, are battlegrounds for stray animals navigating shrinking habitats, unpredictable feeding patterns, and daily human neglect or abuse. Territorial aggression in street dogs is often a symptom, not of cruelty, but of fear. Perhaps someone before me, a stranger more threatening, had harmed them. Perhaps I was just a silhouette at the wrong place, the wrong moment, carrying the burden of human history in a dog’s memory.

And yet, my love for animals, especially strays, remains unchanged. I still pause to greet the familiar faces in my own neighbourhood, those gentle souls who’ve come to trust our shared routines. And even now, despite the scars and the trauma, I refuse to let fear erase compassion. The real question, then, might be this, What does it say about us, our cities, our systems, our species? When survival forces the most loyal creatures among us to become the most feared?

At the Bend of Becoming

That raw wound on my leg may have healed but now has became a portal, not just into trauma, but transformation. I’m not the same Ancy who stood on that beach in Goa. I am no longer chasing who I was as a runner before this incident. I am slowly becoming someone steadier, softer, fiercer as I was always meant to be. I learnt that sometimes it takes a terrifying experience, to learn how lucky we truly are. For me, that unexpected betrayal on the running track was the mirror I needed to learn this very important lesson. I survived. I didn’t let that experience define me. Some days, I still flinch at barking dogs. Some days I still skip some runs and I tell myself that it is gonna be alright as I will always have the morning sun to try again. Every step forward makes me feel like the luckiest girl on the planet. Some scars aren’t always visible. They may fracture your pact, with open spaces, with your body, with your voice but they also teach you to insist that your fear matters. Your grief is valid. Your recovery deserves space.You need time to heal on your own time, because when the road betrays you, steadily rebuilding yourself, your pact, your trust, is the bravest run of all.

And maybe that’s what becoming truly is. Not some loud, sweeping transformation, but the stubborn, almost defiant act of choosing yourself in the quiet. It’s gathering up the shattered, forgotten, overlooked parts of your soul, brushing them off, and stitching them back into something new. I am learning that when the road turns on you, it isn’t punishment, it’s an unexpected, unwelcome, but necessary push toward the person you were always meant to be. I don’t chase what I lost anymore. I honour it, I grieve it, and then I build something better. In the stillness of all that becoming, I realize I am, against every odd and expectation, “The Luckiest Girl on the Planet.” Not because life went to plan, but because I stayed. I fought. I softened. I took the time to heal. That, right there, is my greatest becoming.

About the Author:

Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37, to a slower and more intentional life.

In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we need to keep proving. It’s something we shape daily with the decisions we take for our loved ones.

She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India.

She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spending hours pouring her heart out in these personal weekly memoirs.

She shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes her memoirs are her attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is just embarking on her journey of “Becoming”.