Tag: The Luckiest Girl on the Planet

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”.