The rough transformation

In stories, we often hear how a single incident changes a life for better or worse. We think such exciting things only happen to other people—which is what makes their tales worth telling. As a child, I devoured those tall tales and dreamed of being swept away from the mundane by something world-altering.

In July 2013, that happened to me. I was ten weeks pregnant. No one at work knew yet—my doctor had advised waiting until the end of the first trimester to ensure no complications. So I sat at my work laptop, tapping away through back-to-back meetings, hiding the nausea, the exhaustion, the whole mess. At my side, a big bowl of oatmeal and a foul glass of prune juice waited patiently—they were all my first-trimester body could handle. Tasteless porridge. Foul fruit drink. By midday, I had knocked out a significant chunk of work. But with a constant tumbling sensation in my stomach threatening to hurl bile every two hours, I barely slept. I lived in a drowsy twilight zone of my own.

But the upside of waking at odd hours was that I could work while the rest of the world slept. I answered emails at 4 AM, sent updates at midnight, knocked out presentations when the house was silent. To my boss, I was always available—which meant he never questioned my productivity. The downside, of course, was that I was never truly rested. My body was a fragile machine running on fumes and prune juice.

I woke at odd hours and fell asleep mid-task. I had cravings so specific that my body rejected the food until it appeared exactly as imagined—a total mess. I pinched my nose and drained the prune juice, then forced down a big spoonful of oatmeal before my tongue could revolt. I waited, held my breath, and swallowed the rest. By the time lunch passed, I still had meetings and work to wrap up.

I hummed absently as I searched for flights. My parents were thrilled but tied to work; my mother-in-law, who didn't work, offered six months. "I'll be there for all of it," she said. "If your mother can't come, I will." She smiled through the pixelated screen. "After all, you're like a daughter to me."

I forced a smile. Why couldn't my mother say that?

My mother, on the other hand, told me I'd enjoy the second trimester. "You won't want extra wheels on cart," she said. I wanted to believe her. But between the 4 AM emails and the prune juice, "enjoy" felt like a foreign language.

Finally, we agreed: my mother-in-law would cover the end of the second trimester, the entire third, and the postpartum period. My parents would arrive later. All of this weighed on me as I stared at the flight options, secretly praying my parents would change their plans and swoop in instead.

I was hovering between drowsiness, work, and thoughts of another trip to the bathroom when I heard the front door open. I waddled out of bed and saw my husband. 2:00 PM. "Did you bring Jack's sandwiches?" I teased.

His face was pale. Bad-news pale.

"What happened?" I asked. "Experiment fail?"

"Sit down, darling." His voice was weak. He set his bag on the floor.

"You're scaring me. What happened? Stop joking!"

"Your dad died," he said flatly.

My head spun. The words didn't make sense. Sunlight outside the window dimmed—or maybe a cloud had passed.

I stared at him, waiting for the punchline. "What kind of dumb joke starts like that?"

"He just... Your sister called a few minutes ago. He died." He pressed his palm to his forehead.

"What are you talking about?" The floor dissolved under my feet. My stomach rumbled harder. The urge to vomit surged.

My computer dinged. A message from my boss.

I stared at it, unseeing. Dead? How was that possible?

"Do you mean my grandfather?" I couldn't believe my ears. I had just spoken with my parents yesterday. We were going to finalize their tickets over the long weekend. In two more weeks, I'd learn the gender of their first grandchild. And our last call—I had shouted at him, hung up while he pleaded with me to calm down. I never apologized. Never made up. How could he be dead? He had no health problems.

The computer dinged again. My phone rang. It was my boss.

Of course it was. I had trained him to expect this—late-night updates, early-morning replies. He had no idea I was running on fumes and grief. I forced my brain to switch gears.

"Trouble with the VPN. Give me five. Can you load the deck and model from the drive until I'm in?"

"Join soon. This is a huge deal—no one knows it like you."

He hung up. I screamed into my pillow. My heart shattered. My stomach, a mind of its own, grumbled and growled harder. I raced to the toilet—not a minute too soon. Out came the prune juice and oatmeal in a slushy maroon mess.

I wiped myself clean, checked my face in the mirror, washed it, and dragged myself back to the meeting.

I dialed in with a cheery voice and forced down the bile rising in my throat as the meeting proceeded. My boss beamed. He had no idea I was flying on autopilot, my world shattered around me.

My husband sat beside me, squeezing my hand.

After the meeting, I messaged my boss: something urgent had come up, I needed the rest of the day offline. Still riding the high of success, he happily agreed.

I slammed the computer shut and broke down in heaving sobs. I didn't know it yet, but that was the last ordinary day of my life.

The weekend I held two worlds

 The long weekend of Memorial Day was long awaited.

Things were still stiff between me and Harsha. He was fried from work. I was fried from an unsatisfied life. He asked me to find somewhere to travel—just to take his mind off things. But before I could think of anything, he wrangled a spot at Lassen. A coveted log cabin in a national park, two weeks before travel.

Almost never possible.

We got it: Sunday through Tuesday morning. Three days, two nights.

The kids exploded with excitement the moment we told them. For two full weeks, they kept asking if we could leave sooner, stay longer. Vicky was especially adamant—at least a week, he declared. They both started assembling their nature kits: tracking lists, books, binoculars, magnifying glass, compass, survival sets, all the odds and ends. Vicky even packed his ranger vest and cap like a small officer heading into the wilderness.

But even as we packed, a shadow stretched across the ocean.

Tatayya gave us a scare. He hadn't been eating well, and nearly stopped fluid intake altogether. He resisted everything—even his favorites: mango, pulihara, avakaya. Not even coffee. Watching him through the camera from my living room, I saw a skeleton with sunken eyeballs. It was hard to look, harder to look away.

Pavan flew to help Amma. I watched over the video feed, talking to her, to Tatayya, to him. But underneath every word was guilt. I had been there just five months ago. He had deteriorated so much since then. I almost thought his end was near.

I felt like a vulture watching him over the camera.

I was torn in half. Do I book an expensive flight to India, be there for Amma? Or do I travel with my kids, create their childhood memories? The tickets were crushing. And the car trip wasn't a one-adult show—not with our two monkeys.

Then I saw Harsha's face. His face dropped when he saw my grandfather on video. Dropped even more as he heard me mulling over India versus the park. He saw his own beloved late grandfather in mine. He didn't have the heart to dissuade me from going, nor the heart to put his foot down for the park. He left it to me, making stoic plans for either decision.

Amma took a call. They were going to insert a stomach feeding tube for Tatayya. They did the operation. That night, for the first time in over a week, Amma got some rest.

Then the phone rang. Tatayya had pulled the tube out at night. Amma had a intense conversation. He had to be fed, but he wasn't cooperating. I knew any decision was not mine. I voted to give tatayya the dignity of deciding whether he will agree to feed or fast to the more painful end, for him and all of us. 

After a lot of talking, he petulantly agreed to eat the normal way again. Pavan returned to Dubai, where Sindhu and Niru were waiting for the 2nd birthday party finalizing. Nalini left with their family to Japan. And I left for Lassen with Harsha and the kids—some routine reprieve in our lives.

---

The Park

Snow-peaked Shasta and Lassen were breathtaking, leaving us speechless in their magnificence. The utter lack of network helped us focus on the present and take in the wonders of nature. We went on trails, went boating, explored volcano lava tubes. The last night of our trip, we started a campfire, shared stories and smores around, staying up late with the kids. We found sulfur springs with gas bubbling right out of the ground.

The log cabin was wonderful—enough space to have seven people sleep comfortably. We tucked into our sleeping bags, forgetting about baths for three days.

Whenever we touched a spot with internet, I sent a short message to Mom asking after Tatayya. I'd read her reply when I got internet again later.

The kids were over the moon—taking photos, writing in their junior ranger books. On our last day, we even saw snowfall. It was good thing we had the campfire the night before,  everything was soft and wet. There was a hailstorm on the road, rainbows in the sky, snow dusted trees on sharp jagged peaks.

By the time we left, our hearts felt lighter. And I felt a little thaw with Harsha.

---

Afterword

We came home with photos of volcanoes and pine trees, of Vicky in his ranger vest, of ordinary laughter. Tatayya was still there, still fragile. Amma was still exhausted. The camera was still on.

But for three days and two nights, we had some routine reprieve. Not healing. Not resolution. Just a small breath between two impossible loves.

And that—snowmelt and all—was enough.

The Unbreakable Crack

Session 1: Miriam (Palestinian American, graphic designer, pessimoptimist)

Dear crack,

Today I realized I check my news feed before I check my own pulse. That's backwards, right? Pulse first. Then chaos. But the chaos is faster.

My lawyer called. Jad's bond hearing got postponed. Again. The judge has a "heavy docket." That means: too many brown people, not enough hours. I've started calculating my life in legal fees. Each "continuance" costs $500. Each $500 is two weeks of groceries. Each two weeks of groceries is one panic attack.

But here's the funny part—I've stopped panicking. I just sit on my floor and stare at you, crack. You've grown, by the way. Two inches since November. Are you a metaphor? Or just bad plumbing?

Both, probably.

I used to hope for good news. Now I hope for the least bad news. That's pessimoptimism. That's survival.

Jad called from the detention center last night. He said the guards took his glasses. He said the food tastes like nothing. He said "Tell Mango I'll be home soon." Mango is his cat. I don't have the heart to tell him Mango ran away three months ago.

Some days I think the crack is the only thing that believes me. Not the courts. Not the headlines. Just you.

— M.

Session 2: Kwame (Liberian American, Uber driver, father of three)

Hello, crack. I don't believe you, but I'm tired of talking to God. He stopped answering after the travel ban.

I drive sixteen hours a day. Not because I want to. Because a 2015 Corolla and a prayer are all I have left. My passengers ask me where I'm from. I say "Brooklyn." They ask again. I say "Brooklyn again." They laugh, but the white ones tip less when they sense an accent.

My son came home from school crying. Another kid called him "deportable." He's eight. He was born in Maimonides Hospital. His favorite food is pizza with pineapple, which I think is a crime, but that's America for you.

Here's what I learned: "Due process" is a word they teach in civics class. In real life, it's a waiting room with no chairs. I have a work permit. I have a tax ID. I have a lease. None of that stops my chest from tightening when I see a black SUV.

My wife says I'm paranoid. I say paranoia is just pattern recognition.

Last week, a passenger left a copy of the Constitution in my backseat. Page 14 was underlined. "No person shall be deprived of life, liberty, or property without due process of law." I laughed so hard I almost crashed.

Crack, tell me: does a shadow ever get tired of being a shadow?

— K.

Session 3: Elena (Mexican American, DACA recipient, nursing student)

Dear crack, 

I'm supposed to be studying for my NCLEX. Instead, I'm whispering to a crack in the ceiling. This is fine. Everything is fine.

The Supreme Court is deciding if I get to keep my life. Again. That's the third time since 2017. I've stopped counting the number of times I've renewed my DACA. Each time, I send $495, two passport photos (smiling, as if my smile matters), and a prayer folded into the envelope. The prayer never gets approved. But the check clears.

My mother calls me every night. She doesn't say "I love you" anymore. She says "Don't get pulled over." That's how we say it now.

I work nights at a diner. The customers call me "Maria." That's not my name. But I answer to it because correcting them takes three seconds, and three seconds is enough time for someone to notice I'm not supposed to be here. Except I am supposed to be here. I've been here since I was two. I dream in English. I cry in Spanish. That's the bilingual experience, crack.

One time, a patient at my clinical rotation thanked me. He said, "You'll make a great nurse someday." I almost cried into his IV bag.

I want to save lives. But first, I have to save my own. And the government keeps moving the goalposts.

My lawyer says I have a 60% chance. I asked him: "Sixty percent of what?" He didn't answer.

— E.

Session 4: Sunita (Indian American, H-1B visa holder, software engineer)

Crack, I don't have time for this. I have a sprint planning meeting in twenty minutes. 

I make $140,000 a year. I have a Master's from Carnegie Mellon. I optimize supply chain algorithms for a company that starts with "A" and ends with "zon." And I am exactly one layoff away from being on a plane to Mumbai.

The new rule says H-1B spouses can't work anymore. My husband is a photographer. He hasn't slept in three days. He's been documenting ICE raids. That's his art now. The galleries don't want it. Too real. Too many brown faces.

My coworkers ask me if I'm "worried about the visa situation." I smile and say "It'll work out." That's a lie. I've been in line for a green card for eight years. The line moves one inch per administration. Under Trump, the line moved backward.

My lawyer sent me a spreadsheet. It predicts my green card approval date: 2047. I'll be 68. By then, the ceiling crack will have swallowed the whole building.

But here's the secret, crack: I'm lucky. I have money. I have a lawyer. I have a job that buys me distance from the worst of it. And that knowledge—that I am the privileged one—keeps me up at night.

Because if I'm drowning, what about everyone else?

Last night I dreamed I was back in Mumbai. My mother was making chai. She said "Why did you leave?" I didn't have an answer.

— S.

Session 5: Alejandro (Undocumented, construction worker, father of a U.S. citizen)

Recorded February 2020

I don't write good English.

I came here in 2005. I built this city. I built the condos where the lawyers live. I painted the walls that the art hangs on. I never took a single dollar from the government. I paid taxes with an ITIN. I never even got a speeding ticket.

Then 2017 came. And suddenly, I am a "criminal." For what? For working. For feeding my daughter. For staying alive.

My daughter is nine. She has an American passport. She asked me last week: "Papi, are you going to disappear?" I told her no. That was another lie.

I live in a basement now. No windows. No crack in the ceiling—just concrete. But I come to Miriam's apartment sometimes to talk to you, crack. Because you are the only thing that has seen us all. The Palestinian. The Liberian. The Mexican. The Indian. The Mexican again, but this time without papers.

We are different. But we share the same fear: the knock. The van. The headline that doesn't name us correctly.

My friend José was deported in 2018. He had been here twenty years. Two kids. A mortgage. They sent him to Guerrero, a place he left when he was three. He calls me every Sunday from a payphone. He says: "Don't send money. Send news."

What news, crack? That the administration is still angry? That eggs cost more than hope? That my daughter cries into her homework?

Some news is just noise. Some news is a knife.

— A.

Session 6: Nadia (Somali American, political organizer, surveillance target)

Recorded July 2018

Dear crack,

Don't judge. Because I'm about to tell you things that would get me put on a list. Another list. There are so many lists now, I think I'm on a list of lists.

I organize. That's what I do. I register voters in Minneapolis. I knock on doors in suburbs where the curtains twitch. I teach people their rights when ICE shows up at 5 AM. I am, according to the administration, a "threat to public safety." My crime? Telling brown people they can vote.

Three months ago, a friend sent me a link. A dark web marketplace. Under "Domestic Intel" was a file. My file. Someone had scraped my entire digital life. My texts. My Venmo. A photo of me at a protest with "ANTIFA LIAISON" written in red over my face. Price: 0.8 Bitcoin. Current bids: 12.

I called the FBI. They said they'd "look into it." That was ninety days ago.

I stopped using my phone. I started meeting people in parks, like spies. My therapist says I'm experiencing "hypervigilance." That's the clinical term for "being right." Because the fear isn't irrational. Someone out there has my address. My routines. The name of my mother's cat.

Last week, a car idled outside my apartment for three hours. No plates. I called the police. They never came.

I have a go-bag now. Passport (expired), cash ($200), burner phone, granola bars. I don't know where I'd go. But the bag makes me feel like I'm doing something.

My volunteers think I'm paranoid. I tell them: paranoia is just trauma with a calendar.

But here's what they don't understand. I'm still here. I still send one message every morning: "We keep going." That's not bravery. That's stubbornness. That's the Pessoptimist in me saying: "They want me to stop. So I won't."

Crack, you're the only one who knows all this. Crumple. Burn. Deny.

— N.

Session 7: Hassan (Egyptian American, small business owner, father of a transgender daughter)

Recorded October 2019

Crack, I don't know why I'm here. My imam says Allah listens. But Allah seems to be santioned, and He hasn't called back.

I own a deli in the Bronx. I've owned it since 2005. I know every customer's name. I know which ones are lonely. I am, according to the Small Business Administration, a "success story." According to the Trump administration, a "national security concern" because my cousin's friend's brother once donated $20 to a mosque in Cairo.

But that's not why I'm here. I'm here because of Layla.

My daughter. Seventeen. She came out as transgender last year. I did not understand. I am an old man from Alexandria. But Layla is my heart. She changed her name from Ahmed. She started wearing her mother's old scarves. She smiled for the first time in years.

Then the administration rolled back protections for transgender people. Then the courts said it was legal to fire someone for being who they are. Now Layla is afraid to leave the apartment.

My fears: Someone will hurt her. ICE will come for me. Inflation will eat my deli. I will fail the only person who calls me Baba.

But Layla said to me last week: "Baba, you're the only safe place left." And I thought: Then I will be a fortress.

I don't have a gun. I don't have a lawyer. I have a deli, a daughter, and a ceiling crack. But that is enough. It has to be.

So I keep opening the store at 6 AM. I keep making sandwiches for lonely people. I keep telling Layla she is beautiful.

— H.

Session 8: Mei (Chinese American, journalist, target of a reverse warrant)

Recorded January 2020

Dear crack,

I am a journalist. I cover family separation at the border. I have interviewed mothers who haven't seen their children in two years. I have written stories that made people cry and then close their browser.

Then the government noticed me.

Last November, my phone started acting strange. Battery draining. Random restarts. A friend said: "You've been Pegasus-ed." Spyware. Then the reverse warrant came. The government demanded data on everyone who searched for my name. They didn't come after me. They came after my audience.

My fear is not for myself. It's for my source. A former ICE employee who gave me documents. If they find her, we both go to prison.

I stopped calling her. I started using encrypted notes passed through library books. I started writing on a typewriter. A literal typewriter. Twelve pounds. I carry it in a backpack like a ghost.

My editor thinks I'm being dramatic. My mother thinks I'm having a breakdown.

They don't understand. The surveillance is not paranoia. The surveillance is real.

But I keep writing. Not because I'm brave. Because someone has to describe the sound of a door closing on a toddler. If they want to silence me, they'll have to do it publicly. And if they do it publicly, maybe someone will care.

That's not a strategy. That's a prayer.

I keep carrying my typewriter. I keep talking to you, crack. You're the only witness without a subpoena.

— M.

Session 9: Kevin (White, male, 34, warehouse supervisor, average in everything)

Recorded February 2020

Yeah. Hi. Whatever.

My name's Kevin. I'm nobody. 5'9". 185 pounds. A beard like every other beard. A 2014 Ford F-150 that will probably outlive me. I move boxes in a warehouse. Then I move them back. I am, by every metric, average. Average height. Average income. Average divorce. Average disappointment.

Here's what nobody tells you about being average: it's loud. The kind of loud that hums at 2 AM when you're wondering where it all went. You had plans. Nothing big. Just enough. Enough to buy the good ground beef. Enough to look your ex-wife in the eye and not see pity.

But enough never comes. And the news says you're the problem.

I watch the headlines. Inflation up. Rent up. My health insurance deductible is a joke. I pulled my own tooth last year. With pliers. And every time I swipe my card and it gets declined, the news tells me who to blame. Immigrants. Socialists. The deep state.

And I want to believe it. Because if it's not their fault, then it's mine.

But I work with a guy from Honduras. Jose. He taught me how to fix my truck for forty bucks. Jose asked if I was okay after my divorce. Jose is not my enemy.

I let the propagandists speak for me. Because they sound sure. And I am not sure of anything except that my back hurts.

I don't want to be angry anymore. Anger is a fire that burns its own house.

I want to be proud. Not of a flag. Of me. Proud that I showed up for my kids. Proud that I didn't become the person the propagandists wanted me to be.

I hope that someone remembers my name. Not because I was famous. Because I was good.

I'm Kevin. I'm average. I'm scared. And I'm still here.

— K.

 

word count 2500 

What doesn't break us leaves us sagging

 They say that what doesnt break you, makes you stronger. I have carried this idea around in my head as long as I could remember. "dont cry, be strong" was my father's constant refrain. I learn at a young age, that crying was a sign of weakness, and conditioned to think that I was stronger than crying. 

 

I went for many years of my childhood and significant part of my adulthood without crying, always believing that I was above crying. tough situations happened, but I did not shed tears. I trembled inside, stressed panicked, often having nervous breakdowns within, but not cracking outside. All that stress I accumulated, only made me a nervous person, unable to feel vulnerable to myself, let alone outsiders. 

 

The very first time i failed an engineering subject, was my first heavy loss. I had never failed a subject, it was a huge blow. I knew I did not do well, but I really did not think I did so poorly as to be repeating the examination a second time. the memory of how my father reacted left a deep impact on me. He was jovial and light hearted about it. He brushed it off, saying that everyone fails at least a subject a semester in engineering, it is not the end of the world. I learnt that failure is not the end of life, nor does it define me. yet over time, the more i failed, the more I tried to reassure myself that failure does not define me. the problem with that complacent denial was that making bad choices now has an excuse. The effect being that risk and reward are not weighed properly to determine the right amount of effort to give to a task. 

 

as an adult, I check myself when I apply this law. Yes, the outcome does not define your worth as a person, but the effort you make for something you decide to commit for, does. The reward is immaterial compared to the sincerity of purpose. when you make half hearted effort, and hope for the best, you are already setting yourself up for a delusion that perhaps luck will favor you and the outcome will be favorable. What a disservice to do to yourself! 

Now I am in middle age, in forties. by that measure I have lived half my lifetime, half of which was as an immature child , without enough weight to my decisions and efforts. Realistically, a quarter of my life has passed for me to have no excuse but my own dedication. 

Where am I going with this? I forgot. 

I married a man who ended up being a bean counter. One who measures success by outcomes, and uses that to belittle, undercut and invalidate me. such men exist, but this was not a choice foisted on me. He was a choice i made, when I misread the red flags, deluding myself into a trap. 

My mistake? I miscalculated the size of the flag. I overestimated the size of the green flags and underestimated the size of the red flags. I told myself I could convert this man and make the green overwhelm the red flags. I did not read the backwardness, or the conservative attitudes of those around him. I thought I found a diamond in the rough, but diamonds seldom show up in the dust. By nature, they are hard to find, harder to unearth. Lazy, wishful thinking struck again. 

Here I am now, exhausted by a lifetime of poor decisions, life meandering into nothingness, all potential wasted.  

Now, I weep for my lifetime of thinking that what doesn't break me, makes me stronger. I am weaker, diminished, living vicariously through the others, hoping my children will learn from my sad decisions and do what I did not.  

 

Word count 638 

Enablers of the great fragile ego

Since my childhood, one thing that really bugged me as a child was how the parents of other kids blindly supported their own. If I was at fault, I couldn't rely on my parents to battle for me blindly. If the other child was wrong, I never saw their parents correct them publicly in front of me like mine did for me. 

I understood their sense of fair play better as I grew up, but when I was younger, I thought they didn't care for protecting me that much. That really hurt my ego, that the behavior was never going to be good enough. As an adult, more I see how adults enable bad behavior by not nipping it in the bud. This is not just with adults with the kids they raise, but their own adult siblings and family. Where you would think that as a mother, father, son, daughter, sister or brother,  you would have the leverage to speak truth to powers and guiding them to their better selves. 

While how my parents correcting my behavior with tough love was a hard pill to swallow, I learnt the sense of right applied to everyone. As an adult, I fashioned my own moral compass to be,  justice is blind. This made me the harshest judge of my own actions as well. I inherited the blunt tongue along with sharp words to accompany me as a prick.

 In my own family,  I see my spouse's sister laying claim for the validation of their victimhood. I don't entertain their personal problem complaints of marriage. I'm not in any of those marriages for me to be involved. Where I draw a line to force them to confront and solve their marital rift, I don't see that being the case from other adults with influence. Specifically, her own parents or brother. Instead of correction, they massage her feeling of being wronged constantly. 

My spouse, for instance, backs his sister unflinchingly. He along with his parents have created and maintained an echo chamber for her fragile ego. This unhealthy poking and parking of noses in business they don't belong in, has just widened the rift between the couple who are adults and should be given the space to fix their own problems. 

While this didn't matter for a long time to me directly, I saw the problem intensifying with time. This woman is a known pathological liar with tendency to exaggerate, project the worse of her mind onto others's actions. Instead of being the rational tongue that stops her wild fears, they are letting it run free unchecked, empowered.   

The problem with creating this safe space for her stupidity is that it directly ties back the enablers to support her stupid victimhood. They no longer have a leg to rebut her, instead end up becoming her crutch for as long as they enable. Such malicious victims do not stop with just passive complaining but actively turn to them to support all kinds of mad plans and own guilt on her supposed condition being their fault. 

On top of the blind support, it's their willful blindness to facts today contradict her victimhood.  

In the end, both as a functioning adult, and a functioning parent, she is failed by those who should set her straight on  the right path, but constantly serving as a trampoline instead of a safety net, they are making her perceptions a game and a contest of becoming sufferable.

Today, I had a quarrel with my husband about this. How It started was the way he is blind to all his sisters faults, her victim hood, her exaggeration and lies. How he never tells her she is wrong, and backs her even if she is wrong. He rebutted that he will always believe her, she is his sister. I told him that she is wrong in her so many complaints about her husband.  

We don't get to pick our family, but we are very much adult when we choose who we marry. No matter how much she gripes, no one forced her into her marriage. For better or for worse, that's her life. 

They refuse to learn any facts to her both sides. To them,  her side is enough. To my parents in law, to open their eyes to the mistakes of their daughter is a personal reflection on their own upbringing. The alternate having done nothing less than a great job is a massive blow to their own ego.  They have enabled her complaints, willingly letting her burden her unhappiness as their doing.

The brother seems to be lost. Saying the truth and doing the right thing is too hard. And it requires a thing called spine and guts.

 Not one of them is able to call this self preening complaining for what it is. To be part of this family that is both cowardly, cherry picking facts to suit their echo chamber and willingness to lie preserve their facade, it's not what I was raised with. 

 The more I see their moral weakness, the more I want to get out of this marriage. These are not the morals I want to teach my own kids or be part of. But this is what they are. Once upon a better time,  my husband shared my moral compass. Now he shares the dysfunctional one of his family. To me, this is very much a deal breaker. 

Word count: 839 

The cost and price of a divorce

Deciding to separate or getting divorced is not easy. It is very costly, both socially and financially. It is especially hard to stay in a marriage when the love is gone from it, when there are still bonds tied to the relationship with children. Young children who need the stable household to thrive. What is the price of that stability, and who really pays it? 

It is now more than two years that I feel checked out of a marriage. Emotionally distant, and physically unattached, I have mostly passive-aggressive roommate with whom I have two young children. The loss of trust, precipitated with gradual shutting of shared accounts, closing away passwords with finger print locks and two-factor authentication. 

When he gave me his passwords, my idle curiosity fell on things that he did not tell me about. A seed of mistrust was planted in him that I would search through his emails, and isolate what was found, taking it out of context. But the truth is that he convinced me of the context, and we moved on forward, although the incident remained in my mind, as maybe something I should have investigated more, not taken his word for it. But I was so eager to believe in it. At 23, I thought the one year of courting was a sunken investment, too precious to discard. I wish I could go back and tell her, that life is so long, and it is better to call out even a pink flag than wait for the bright red ones to show up.

His family are toxic and send messages that break down his tolerance for backbiting gossip and mudslinging. I did not approve of some of these communications even though I was not a subject of me. I felt he was enabling the avoidance cowardly attitude. Instead of shutting down that nonsense and encouraging healthy problem solving, he just passively allowed himself to be a bouncing board for cultivating self pity and victim mentality. My objections caused him to further retreat access to his communication, one app at a time. When I objected to purchases he made on the shopping carts, that was another app he removed my access on. Final straw was splitting up the bank accounts, and transfering money to pay the bills, rather than goig through all our transactions together like we had for years.  

Things that have no place in a real relationship. If someone is unable to trust these aspects with a partner, then they have no business whatsoever staying married. I have also been an all or nothing. There is no second face to my personality, detrimentally or otherwise, what you see is what you get. I don't backbite, gossip, plot, scheme behind people's backs while presenting a smiling face. 

This attitude has always got me in more trouble than not. The ability to be duplicitious is a survival mechanism, a cowards way to avoid conflict, with no honor. I have never backed from a right fight, or cheated myself into a wrong one. I am not above apologizing and taking responsibility for bad behavior. But this blunt and very often tactless honesty people find very unappealing. 

For me, to live with anyone who does not mirror these standards feels jarring. And that is why my marriage is failing. A sorry is irreplaceable with anything else. Anything besides a sorry is a surplus of making up, but does not explicitly substitute actually honestly taking responsibility and bringing the gap towards healing. 

Now at an impass, I don't know where to turn next. The habits that are carved into the family are not so easy to change. I am painfully aware of my own red flags. Maybe I should make a list of it. So here goes

1. Easily distracted, constantly seeking a rush of excitement from new-ness 
2. Tactlessly blunt
3. Inability to gracefully accept presents or compliments or help.  
4. Dysregulation emotional control
5. Wave of guilt when the rage passes over
6. Hard to forgive and keep moving forward. Unwillingness to forgive when gestures try to replace straightforward repentance or apology
7.  Overthinking
8. No half measures in love or trust. 

I do not like being with this guy. He was not the most attractive looking guy. Even back then. I really thought he has a moral fiber to counter the physical features. Slowly over time, I came to understand that the inner beauty or inner goodness in him was less than the outer beauty. What a wound.

His appreciation for his own self survival at any cost, the cat-on-wall attitude to conflict resolution, or strengthening relationship. Even with the children, the amount of time or engagement he does with them, feels mediocre at best. There is nothing I can see that makes him stand out as a quality man. He does no reading, sports, social gatherings, self improvement. 

All those years ago, I thought, here is a guy, whose interests partially intersect my own. Between my interests and his, we will find so many interesting things to do for the rest of our lives. We did some, but mostly we lived on his terms. Looking back, I dont feel liberated, I feel diminished, undignified. Marriage to him is turning me into those people who do nothing but take macabre joy at other's suffering. 

I am beginning to see the insecurity, uncreativity, laziness, and rough speak in my children which mirror him, and it alarms me.  I want to see the ways that life is meant to be lived, with joy, bravery and creativity. And I don't know whether staying in a stagnant marriage that seems to make me toxin is helping my children fulfil their potential and reach for more. 

Am I talking too much, thinking too much, analyzing too much? 

Word count: 961 

3 part act in the day of a mom

Dear Diary,

Today was a really rough day.

Morning: The Morning Rush

It started the same way it always does—rushing in the morning, waking sleepy heads, pushing them through the rituals of brushing, washing, packing bags. It’s been more than two weeks since I stopped taking the antidepressant. I feel less patient. I don’t know if the medication was actually making me calm, or if this is just me meeting the weight of mornings like this without a buffer. Either way, it’s a conversation for my next appointment.

Sammy burrowed deeper into his sheets. Vicky was wrapped in his blanket like a cocoon, heedless of the noise. I set the rice and started breakfast. No sound yet from the VIPs.

I called louder.

7:10.
Sammy shot up, panic flooding his face. He was late. Did he do the debate homework? Big surprise face—"no?" Of course not.

"I did not know how to open it, Amma."

"Are you serious? You had a whole week. It was a YouTube video—you didn't even need an account."

I let out a deep, exasperated sigh, spiraling toward the shout zone. But I had to get Vicky out of bed too. I had to pick my ring of fire battles—and I hadn't even started.

Vicky dragged himself out of bed and rolled on the floor, complaining he needed more sleep. I see this every day. He doesn’t sleep when he should; he doesn’t wake when he should. The amount of innovation I’ve tried—TV time, cycling, Pokémon, playtime, Lego time—none of it sticks.

7:20.
Sammy was ready. Lunches packed. Breakfast set out. I started hounding both kids from room to room, trying to accelerate the impossible. Vicky was still in front of the mirror, conversing with his strange morning reflection.

All the while, they yammered about questions that, in their minds, carried the urgency of a national crisis. I was mentally tearing out my hair, controlling the rising rage just beneath my skin.

7:45.
The carpool pickup was 7:40. Sammy was still running around—socks, phone, snack, allergy medicine. Same drill every day. Even though everything was set up, he hadn’t packed it in.

When anyone else is late, Sammy complains loudly. I’ve told him: one day it could be him running late, and the others won’t hesitate to take out their mick. He didn’t stop. He kept asking to switch carpools, blaming everyone else. I didn’t want to, but I knew I’d have to bring it up with the other parents. And I knew it would turn into a blame game—an open invitation to put Sammy under the microscope next time he was late.

Now he was cutting close himself. I nudged Vicky to finish his breakfast.

Sammy pulled on his shoes, checked for his phone, and looked at me expectantly for the morning hug. He almost never leaves without it—tight hug, kiss, "I love you."

Vicky rushed to the door when he saw Sammy smile and hug me. He wears his emotions on his heart. He ran to his brother with open arms, nudging in for his own hug. Sammy allowed him a side hug, patted his head, held Vicky’s eager smooch at arm’s length. It pinched me to see the inequality—Sammy holding him back while Vicky leaned in with his whole heart, unguarded and hoping.

8:00.
Vicky had finished eating. I hurried him to get changed. He’d removed his night clothes and stopped. I packed his bag, scrolling on my phone, confident he’d be out in a minute.

8:10.
Where was Vicky? I ran through the hall, my footsteps thumping—I knew it would make him scared and anxious. Still, I overrode the help books and therapy.

There he was. Still in his room. Rolling on his bed. Something snapped. I began to scold him, not listening to the pleas in his eyes or on his tongue. I half-hissed, half-yelled as I gripped his arm getting him dressed.

8:15.
I scolded him the whole time I put on his shoes. He asked for a different jacket. "This one has melted wax on it. I left it when it went to the wash," he said in a small voice.

I was past listening. "That will teach you to get ready early enough to make dress choices. We are past time for yet another jacket."

"Please, Amma. I can't put my finger in," he showed me. I shoved him through the door. I was angry, but somewhere the cruel roughness pinched me. I pushed it out of my mind.

8:20.
I glared at him to get into the car. It is a severe imbalance of power. He was smaller. I have no right to make him feel unsafe. I am his mother. I should be his safe space. Where does making him feel less able to express himself end and enforcing my responsibility start?

I got a flash of my own childhood: rushing out of bed, panicky loud voices making sure we had everything.

"Run, run, no walking, run!" I shouted as I dropped him off. "No wait—give me a kidd darling boy." He turned with a bright smile, worries gone. He gave a tight, pure hug.

I let out a sigh of relief at getting the kids to school. Then the guilt hit.

Afternoon: The Forgotten Books

By the time I dropped Vicky and returned home, I felt overcome with sleepiness. I had a salad and went to bed. I had no idea I would sleep until 2 PM, until it was time to pick him up.

2:30 PM.
I was groggy, but the bright sun erased any trace of sleep. As we walked back slowly, I asked about his day. It was cool, a slight chance of drizzle later, so I tried a new incentive: cycling if he was done with everything by 4 PM.

When we reached home, I made him finish lunch, have another snack, and sit down for homework.

His bag had nothing but the water bottle and snack box.

"Where are the books and your binder?"

His mouth dropped. "I forgot."

Another pattern: forgetting things he is supposed to bring home. Forgetting things he needs at school. My temple throbbed. Shouting resumed.

I made him do several pages of work his teacher had sent back—work supposed to be completed in school but neglected despite reminders. This teacher isn't the nurturing patient type, despite what she says. I felt the burden of being the worse cop came to me.

I thrust him toward the table. After a "find a pencil, find the eraser, get a drink of water, use the bathroom and final warning," he sat down to start.

3 PM.
By now, Sammy should have returned home. Probably hanging with friends, lost track of time, I sighed. Then I remembered his afterschool class. I'd need to pick him up.

3:15 PM.
I called a few times to make sure he was working on the video and eating his snack. He'd recently recorded the most annoying voicemail greeting. Finally he answered: he couldn't find a place to access the video, but now he remembered the snack. Yay, Mom.

I smiled, thinking how hard this pre-teenager wants to be independent, still forgetting things like eating. His class started in 15 minutes—I had reminded him in time.

3:30 PM.
My attention returned to Vicky. Once again, the pencil, eraser, water, snack replay started. I tried to put a lid on my bubbling impatience before it turned to full-fledged rage. Finally he began his work. (Hurray!)

Two minutes later, he started begging for an extra snack. This boy... Sammy needs no food; I feel bad rejecting Vicky even when it's an excuse to procrastinate.

4 PM.
The time for our break had come and gone. We were no closer to getting through the sheaves of paper long overdue.

I started to question my sanity, my shouting, all the child-rearing self-help material that says the same thing: learning environment deteriorates with stress and volatility. Sure, but what about the sanity of the parents? Or the pressure that expects children to survive this learning atmosphere under the guise of thriving? I want to let them be kids. I really do. The work would take less time than he's stretching it out. His kiddie brain isn't able to just cram it and finish and relieve us both of this struggle. 

Evening: The Lost Phone

5 PM.
I called Sammy to tell him I was at the pickup place. He didn't answer—probably on silent again. Then the obnoxious voicemail. When he came to the car, he looked worried. He said he left something and had to go back for it.

He came back, face fallen. It was the phone. He didn't know where he left it.

"You lost the phone? How? I just talked to you at 3:15, and your class was at 3:30. Maybe it's in the classroom. How could you misplace it in 15 minutes?"

"No, I checked."

I could see panic rising in his face. It was his most precious possession, even if he jokingly called it a flipstone—an old-style non-smart phone. He had begged for it for months. To lose it would cut him.

I launched into a lecture about care of personal belongings. "It might rain tonight. I hope you didn't leave it outside."

I could see his little brain worrying—his lifeline to his friends. Without it, he felt like an outcast. He was more worried than he wanted me to see. He knew showing me real fear would probably make me angrier.

I should have stopped. But again, something snapped. Not about the cost—the intent to push the lesson in. I couldn't stop once the tirade started. It wasn't an expensive phone, and I knew he wasn't really ready for the responsibility.

I scolded him about debate homework, grades, carelessness. He was trapped in the car the whole ride. His tearful face begging me to stop shouting and stop scolding, as he stared straight ahead crying. I was kitchen-sinking, connecting this one incident to everything else. I would not have wanted to be him in that car. I was at my wit's end. I knew how wrong I was, how unfair, how helpless and unsafe I made him feel.

I switched gear to console him: it would probably be found in lost and found. 

Then another sharp stab: "Or if it's not, you can rely on your friends' phones. Then again, since you call it a flipstone, you aren't worried about electronics malfunctioning, so you can use it however it is left to function."

His face dropped in horror, and tears filled his eyes at my cold words. No matter how much he and his friends mocked their phones as dumbphones, they were attached to their beloved devices and the loss would be very felt. It was an exhilerating status symbol and connection, and he acutely relished it.

5:15 PM.

When we got home, he started to put away his work. His planner was empty. His grades were bad, and at least half were bad because of penalty points docked for late submissions. For work that he completed in time, but just did not turn in.

His handwriting was bad. I was spinning out of control with the number of issues my eyes were seeing.

He was crying at my scolding. Vicky was crying at my scolding. My head was throbbing with a severe headache from all the shouting.

Sammy kept telling me I should go back to the library lady therapy. He meant the workshop we attended—the one about creating positive spaces for kids. The irony wasn't lost on me. I had sat in that room, nodding along, taking notes. And here I was, the opposite of everything they taught.

I thought about calling the medication manager. About calling someone. Anyone. But the thought of explaining this day—admitting out loud what I had done—felt impossible. So I said nothing. I just sat there, head throbbing, while both my children cried.

6:30 PM. 

I am supposed to be their safe space. Tonight, I was the storm, and it is not rare any more.

When I finally stopped to get started with dinner, the house was silent. Vicky hid under the table, doing some coloring. Sammy sat at the table, staring into his papers, tears dropping onto the paper.

I wanted to say something. I didn't know what. So I said nothing.

This is what I keep passing down. The panic. The loud voices. The guilt that comes after. I thought about the antidepressant. Whether it was making me calm or just numbing me. Maybe the answer was neither. Maybe the answer was that I need more than a pill. Tomorrow morning, it starts again. I don't know if I'll be better. I don't know if I know how.

word count: 2134