The Luckiest Girl on the Planet
“My Name Is Ancy, and I’m a Recovering Yes-Aholic”

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 JamesAncy 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”.

The Luckiest Girl On The Planet
“My Teen Thinks I’m an ATM with Wi-Fi, and Other Modern Parenting Realities”

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.

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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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 JamesAncy 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”.

The Luckiest Girl On The Planet
“In Defense of Sugar: A Cake Artist’s Survival Guide in a Age of Green Smoothies”

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.

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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.

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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.

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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 JamesAncy 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”.

The Luckiest Girl On The Planet
“The Absurd Art of Outsourcing Our Lives”

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 JamesAncy 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”.

The Luckiest Girl on the Planet
“Lost and Found: A 24-Hour Saga of Missing Spectacles and Other Untraceables”

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.

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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.

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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 JamesAncy 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”.

The Luckiest Girl on the Planet
“With Great Cuteness Comes No Responsibility”

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.

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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.

The Luckiest Girl on the Planet - With Great Cuteness Comes No Responsibility

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 Luckiest Girl on the Planet With Great Cuteness Comes No Responsibility 3

The Luckiest Girl on the Planet - With Great Cuteness Comes No Responsibility

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 JamesAncy 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”.

The Luckiest Girl on the Planet
“When the Roads Betrayed Me and Blessed Me”

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 Luckiest Girl on the Planet When the Roads Betrayed Me and Blessed Me 4

“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.

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The Luckiest Girl on the Planet When the Roads Betrayed Me and Blessed Me 3

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“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 JamesAncy 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”.

The Luckiest Girl on the Planet
“Unseen, Unyielding, Unforgettable: The Women Who Mother Generations”

The Invisible Architects of Our Lives

Today, as I sit gathering these lines for my godmother’s 90th birthday tribute, I find myself grappling with the weight of words. How do you capture a
lifetime of love, sacrifice, and unyielding loyalty in a few pages? How do you pay homage to an amazing Aunt who, without realising it, became the blueprint for how I’d learn to love, endure, forgive, and carry others through storms?

This is my humble, straight-from-the-heart attempt, a love letter of sorts to all my aunts, especially my godmother. The quietly formidable matriarchs of my extended Malayalee family, who taught me what it means to love without limits.

The Emotional Wealth of Aunts

I am a child of the ’70s, raised in urban India before smartphones, OTT platforms, and virtual friend circles. Back then, families weren’t isolated nuclear units. They were sprawling, gloriously entangled systems of connection. At the heart of them stood women we kids called Badi Aunty, Elsy Aunty, Shimla Aunty, Sister Aunty, and Annie Aunty. The unofficial council of fierce, loyal, endlessly tender women who raised us as their own.

As a child, you rarely recognise the wealth of such a legacy. It’s only with adulthood, especially in today’s world of barely-there friendships and scattered families, that I’ve come to realise how rare, and how precious, that upbringing was.

A 2020 study by the University of Notre Dame confirmed that children raised by multiple caring adults develop better emotional regulation, empathy, and resilience.

I didn’t need research to know this. I lived it. I learned from my aunts how to resolve conflicts without distance, how to hold people through their worst days, and how to turn up even when it’s inconvenient.B6BF6077 BEF0 42F3 990E 11BE7FB2637E 1 105 c 62D1CCCB 7EB0 48EA 9741 79431DB1A0A6 1 105 c D083A3DE F36B 4BCA B545 0DC0946CACDD The Luckiest Girl on the Planet 3

 

The Unspoken Sisterhood

More than anyone, I witnessed this in the bond between my mother and her sisters. Their relationship wasn’t always scripted in sugary sweetness, it was many times forged in shared struggle and hard-earned laughter. There were illnesses. Financial strains. The quiet heartbreaks life hands to women who are asked to hold everything together. Through it all, they remained.

What made them remarkable wasn’t just their resilience. It was their instinctive understanding that love could be blunt, fierce, corrective but it was always loyal. I remember watching them sit together, always communicating, speaking a private language of raised eyebrows, unfinished sentences, and knowing smiles.

Why This Still Matters

In an age of rising conversations about mental health, loneliness, and disconnection, we often forget the invisible labour of women who kept families stitched together. Psychologists call this the “village effect” a term popularized by Susan Pinker, which highlights how tight-knit social circles contribute to lower chronic illness risks, better emotional health, and higher resilience.

Our village wasn’t metaphorical. It was literal. My mother’s sisters made up mine.

Even today, the love I share with my mother feels “indestructible” because it was tempered by women who held us both through life’s hardest seasons. I owe my ability to navigate loss, setbacks, and joy alike to my mom and my aunts.

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The Godmother Who Mothered Us All

Among them, one woman stands tallest in my memory, my godmother, Annie Aunty. To me as the youngest of the cousins, she was the axis around which my childhood spun.

Summer holidays were not spent in resorts but sprawled across her home, a heady mix of cousins piled onto mattresses, TinTin comic books, Mills&Boons novels, unlimited Roohafza and tandoori roti & south indian curry dinners. Aunty would leave for work in the mornings while cousins lazed around the house, but never without a conspiratorial wink and a smile just for me, the youngest of the lot. “There’s something in the pantry after lunch… one slice for you, don’t forget,” she’d whisper.

In a house full of older, louder children, it wasn’t about the special dish. It was about being seen.

The Legacy of Small Gestures

She made sure I was never left behind. If older cousins went out on errands or impromptu outings, she’d insist I be taken along. Not because I’d be helpful, though she’d pretend it was for that, but because she understood inclusion’s quiet power. What followed was little me eventually making strong bonds with all my cousin sisters with each passing year. My little world of women whose lives till date continue to inspire and guide me.

Those small, enduring acts by Annie Aunty shaped my little voice and my place in the world. They taught me that love hides in everyday gestures: in second servings of chicken slid onto plates, in quiet scoldings for troubling my mother, and in the same question we heard as soon as we entered aunty’s place “Have you eaten? Are you hungry”

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Love Isn’t Always Gentle

As a teenager, there were also times when I would have muttered something sharp at the dinner table to my mother in my usual teenage tone and would get a immediate reprimand right there and then by Aunty. She would meet my gaze across the dining table, calm but firm. “You don’t speak to your mother like that,” she said. “There’s a time and place to disagree. This is not it. ”

It stung but later, it opened a conversation with my mother about respect, about not letting momentary heat scorch bonds forged in care. It was the kind of love that wasn’t indulgent but was profoundly protective.

A Single Flower, A Lifetime’s Lesson

Perhaps the moment that I cherish and remember the most is when as a young college student I had landed at my aunt’s place on a weekend only to have missed my cousins. They had just left for a movie with their friends. It was one of those rare occasions where we both had the house just to ourselves. I chit chatted with aunty and casually remarked on the craftsmanship of a new floral display in the living room. The flowers seemed exquisitely crafted made out of simple napkin tissues. Without missing a beat, she pulled the carnation flower from the vase and said, “Why don’t we make one, since we have all this free time?” That afternoon, we sat fashioning petals together with some coloured paper napkins. I was clumsy. She was, as always, so patient and enthusiastic about my amateur efforts.. By late evening, I had crafted a modest imitation. It wasn’t perfect but it was mine. She told me the more I practised the better I would get at making it. Her words stayed with
me and I returned home to practice making that particular carnation flower for weeks. I got so good that a few years later, when my elder brother married, I confidently handmade hundreds of white carnations and handled the full responsibility of the church decoration. The bouquet of white carnations placed on each church pew grabbed quite a few eyeballs. I received much praise for the floral bouquets of individually handcrafted carnations. That teaching moment resonates with me even today. Now at my place of business, Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, Sugar floral sprays on

Wedding Cakes are one of my signature bestsellers. It would be safe to say that crafting sugar flowers has become my “Therapy time.”

Because of Them, I Can

“Strong women aren’t born,” the old quote goes. “They’re raised by strong women, mothers, aunts, grandmothers who carried the weight of their world and still left room for tenderness.”

Today, I belong to a lineage of women who taught me resilience, humor, tenderness, and strength. Not through lectures but through lived example. Through gestures so small you might miss them if you weren’t paying attention.

I owe them everything. Especially my Godmother. If I can be even half the woman Annie Aunty is, as loyal, as brave, as quietly tender, I’ll consider my life well-lived.

A Birthday, A Blessing, A Benediction

So, here’s to my darling Godmother. To the woman who taught me that you can love with both a fierce heart and firm hands. That you can build your family not just with blood but with loyalty too. That you can carry entire households, hold space for others, and still leave room for a child’s special piece of dessert.

She is, and will always be, for me “The Best Aunt On The Planet”. Not because she wears that title lightly, but because she carries it like both armour and a banner, and through her, I’ve learned that greatness often hides in the ordinary and that the most radical, resilient thing a woman can do is to quietly, consistently, love.

Happy 90th Birthday, Dearest Annie Aunty. God bless you with health and smiles all around.

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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”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Luckiest Girl On The Planet
“My 21 Days of Hope: The story of my orange Indie cat who refused to be forgotten”

Some bonds defy language. Some stories remind us that love isn’t always measured in words, but in relentless searches, sleepless nights, and a heart that simply refuses to give up.

In a world where we’re so often told to move on, to accept loss, and to let go, what happens when you choose to hold on, not to grief, but to the stubborn belief that what you love is still waiting for you? This is the story of Cookie, my 2.5-year-old orange indie ginger cat, who vanished one stormy evening from our second-floor Bengaluru home. It’s about what I learned in the 21 days we were apart. It’s a story of loyalty, resilience, and the invisible threads that tether us to the beings we call family, no matter how small or furred they may be.

The Luckiest Girl On The Planet

The Disappearance

Cookie wasn’t just a pet. He was family. Rescued as a barely-weaned kitten during a monsoon night in our apartment’s parking lot, he had already proved himself a survivor. And so had I. Yet nothing prepared me for the hollow shock of realising he had slipped off our second-floor balcony during one of his regular zoomie episodes. The thought of him, with no outdoor experience, lost in the unforgiving downpour among unfamiliar streets, hostile feral cats, and relentless monsoon winds was unbearable.

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The Search

As Joan Didion once wrote:

“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.”

The days that followed settled into a rhythm of dawn to dusk patrols. Armed with the rattle of his treat box and calling out his name, I combed our small community, skimming through each pathway, beneath cars, inside storerooms, near drainage pipes.

Friends, neighbours, and local businesses joined in. Early morning walkers. Night shift guards. WhatsApp groups buzzed with blurry orange cat sightings. Every alert made my heart race, and every false lead left a deeper scar.

Cookie had one peculiar trait, an ominous glaze in one eye, like a star trapped in amber, and tiny black freckles on his lips. Through these 21 days, our society’s hidden feline community also revealed itself.

Every ginger cat sighted gave me a fleeting moment of hope, only to be followed by frustration and heartache. There was a kind of grief I was feeling, a sort that felt like so many unfinished stories. Sharp, metallic, and desperate for any sliver of hope.

I was fast realising what a personal toll this search would take on me and the unique challenge of the upcoming days and weeks. Despite that, I was fierce in the belief that I still had time and I could bring upon a happy ending to this search with my sheer determination to get my little boy home.

People told me to stop. Some pointed out that cats forget their humans after a few days. WhatsApp admins asked me to take my “cat talk” offline, and an acquaintance even consulted a pet psychic who ominously declared that after five days, it was “too dark” to sense him anymore.

It was slowly dawning on me that my hope was uniquely keeping me focussed. It was very very personal. It sounded like the quiet voice that whispered to me ‘try again tomorrow’.

So, through all this, I continued. Quietly. Stubbornly.

I knew Cookie—his habits, his temperament, his resilience. I knew he wouldn’t leave us by choice. I believed he was waiting.

After all, some loves aren’t meant to be let go, only chased through rain-soaked nights and dark, scary heartworn streets. Some hearts are stitched together by the ones who wait for us in silence, in shadows, in storm-soaked corners of the world.

We don’t always find what we’re looking for, but sometimes love makes you search anyway, because to stop would be to betray the part of you still brave.

The Breaking Point and the Breakthrough

On Day 20 of my search, a neighbour, posted in our society’s WhatsApp group. He’d seen an orange cat blur near the car park at midnight. I noticed in his Profile picture that he had a French beard so similar to my husbands and that it must have momentarily confused our Cookie to reveal himself to him in the carpark, It rekindled my hope.

The next evening, a few ladies on their evening walk reported a limping ginger cat approaching them from under a car. One of the ladies I recall even had curly hair like I had at that time. Our little boy was desperately looking for me too. I rushed down and spoke with them. They told me he was scared so he hid again behind the cars but he looked exhausted, limping with a swollen leg and tired bloodshot eyes. I knew, without a doubt, it was him. They saw my Cookie.

The Luckiest Girl On The Planet

That night, my search became even more intense. I called out to him, begging into the thick night air, drenched to my skin in the relentless monsoon. I searched until 4 a.m. The strength I showed that day was my reminder that grief is not always tears. Sometimes it’s the sound of your own name called into empty spaces, hoping to be heard.

It is then that moment arrived. I had just returned home to grab a quick bite before heading out again. My phone rang. To me the ringing tone sounded louder than usual. I picked up and the voice on the other side was our night guard, “Madam, one orange cat is here. I think it’s yours. He’s limping near the car park.” It was now 6:30 in the morning.

I ran as fast as I could to the car park, and there he was, behind the car park. Set of shining cat eyes connect with mine. My joy has no bounds. I smile my widest smile and shout out his name, my voice sounding almost like a crazed maniac. My boy had finally emerged.

The initial euphoria didn’t last for long, as in true indie male cat style, he bolted skittishly just to disappear behind the cars again. I saw his location this time. He was not going to win today’s game of “Hide and Seek.” This was it. I knew this was his way of letting me know he was alive.

I called our friend, also the President of the society, who promptly called his team to help me in the car park. “Mission Cookie” was officially coming to an end.

With help from neighbours, society managers and guards, we set up a makeshift football net covering around the car where he was last seen. After four hours of coaxing, some angry growls, hesitant peeks, the dehydrated, tired but still feisty shadow of my once-lively cat emerged. His wounds told stories I’ll never fully understand. He was terrified. I talked him down and continued soothing him with his favourite words and talk as the net started narrowing down on him.

He was safely pacified in that net blanket. He didn’t understand it then and kept hissing at the guards and our neighbours, always turning to look straight at me as if to confirm if he still needed to keep hissing or was he really safe.

Finally, it was time. He was now very close to returning home and I could see in his relaxed demeanour that he knew that he could now breathe easy.

As we opened our home’s front door, Cookie bolted out of the net blanket and ran straight under the safe confines of our living room sofa, where he stayed for a full 24 hours, too scared to let me near him. At least he was safe. His doctor reassured me over the phone, advising that Cookie would need time before trusting again and that we should let him just rest till the next day.

Our work was done for the day. That night, I collapsed on my bed with exhaustion and gratitude.

They say that not every miracle arrives with trumpets. Some crawl home, battered and broken, asking only to be held again.

Healing and Heart Lessons

The following morning, our boy had made brief, cautious trips to his food bowls. His frail body and a badly wounded leg were heartbreaking to witness. We managed to get him to his vet. Cookie needed daily drips, medical care, and rest. The vet, now one of my favourite people on this planet, was amazed he hadn’t succumbed to dehydration or infection in this 21 days. Cookie just was like a small baby, letting her take his X-rays and administer the IV and the various vaccines.

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For five consecutive days, Cookie received IV drips and his leg wound was cleaned and dressed. My daughter stepped up to help him on his road to recovery. Frequent cuddle sessions, timely medicines, and gentle comforting even some play acting, making him a crown of fresh flowers. She took charge and showered him with attention and care even ensuring his visits to the vet were comfortable and stress free for him. Slowly but surely, our little survivor began to heal.

What The Numbers Say

According to a 2025 Pet Welfare India report, 80% of urban pet cats who go missing are never found. Studies also reveal that pet-human bonds are neurologically similar to those between mothers and children, with both species releasing oxytocin during interactions (University of Oregon, 2024). Behavioural psychologists note that resilience in grief situations is often fueled by a deep personal sense of connection, precisely what drove me to keep searching when logic told me to stop. I now understand better that the ones who leave holes in our world also leave threads to find them by . Invisible, stubborn, and stitched into our marrow.

Why I Didn’t Give Up

Friends often ask why I exhausted myself for 21 days over a cat. But what they don’t realise is, Cookie is not just a pet. He’s a survivor, like me. A thread of love in the tapestry of my 48-year-old life, too precious to be lost. A neighbour once joked, “I wish someone would look for me the way you did for your cat.” And honestly,don’t we all? Just hoping to be someone’s ‘worth searching for.’ To be remembered. To be someone’s Cookie. Who is to tell? maybe I wasn’t searching for my cat. Maybe I was searching for the piece of my heart that refused to give up on my little boy.

The Bigger Healing

As I bring this deeply personal saga to its end, I’ve realised that sometimes love isn’t about grand gestures. It’s about the hours spent beneath cars, in rain-drenched clothes, with nothing but faith rattling in your hand. The truth is, we all leave pieces of ourselves in the ones we love, and sometimes, it’s those pieces that find their way home. And every time I watch him now, safe and warm enjoying frequent cuddle sessions with my daughter, I’m reminded of what Rumi once wrote: “What you seek is seeking you.” In the end, what saved us both wasn’t the finding, but the refusing to stop looking for each other.

Final Thoughts

The bigger healing, I realised, was mine, a silent understanding between a cat who never gave up waiting and a woman who never stopped searching for him. As author Haruki Murakami wrote: “When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.” Neither was I. Today, not a day goes by when I don’t look at him sleeping safely beside me and feel like “The Luckiest Girl On The Planet.”

About the author:

Ancy JamesAncy 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”.

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