I was getting ready for work. It was a cold December morning in 2017. It must have been a usual Monday morning for my neighbors. I could not say that with certainty, as I did not know who they were. It was not the usual Monday for me. With my mom in the kitchen and dad in the living room, the morning sun reminded me that today is different.

My parents and I had arrived the day before. Delta decided to have a ‘day date’ with our luggage, so we had to wait for another day to get those. It was my long-time dream to have my parents over and show them around this country. I was supposed to be beaming with joy. Except, I was not.

As I got ready to leave, my mom asked me to stay for breakfast. She made hot and fresh ‘idli’, a south Indian delicacy. My relationship with food had changed in the past few weeks. There was a sense of guilt. No, I am not talking about the type of guilt, that I usually carry, for not trying to keep that fat away. This was different. This felt heavier. Every meal since September 25th, reminded me that I am somehow selfish, to eat. To survive.

I got the car out of garage with the windows open to get some fresh air, my morning routine. Despite the chill wind and the grey clouds, I love going to work in December. Less people, i.e., less number of people asking ‘Hey, how are you’ 4 times a day, less “how was your weekend”s because I could never get used to answering that question every Monday morning. Sometimes even on Tuesdays. Yet, this mid-December Monday was not something I was prepared for.

I took the same highway. Same sign boards. Same exits. Same cars around, ok, maybe different, but you get the idea. But I felt different after getting used to 2 months of Indian traffic. Yes, it has been 2 months since I turned up at work. Everyone in my floor, knew very well, that I was out. That I had gone back to India and had not come back for the next 2 months. They picked up from where I left, the very same day I left. They had to. Because I had to.

As I parked the car and started walking across the parking lot, I felt a rising sense of panic. A sense of discomfort. To be accurate, can you imagine how it felt – to get on that stage for the first time? To experience flying in an aircraft for the first time? To be in the same room with your parents and your in-laws for the first time, sorry, every single time? A sense of entering unknown. A mixed feeling of fear and anxiety.

The last time I swiped my badge there was 2 months ago. It was a Monday too. The next day, I was gone to India. Usually, our vacations are planned. This was our first unplanned one. And this was also the first time I took a vacation for 2 months. What was different, among many others, is that my manager asked me to take as much time as I needed. That does not happen very often, does it?

Lost in thoughts, I reached my desk. There was a ‘Welcome back’ note from my team. I was not ready to be back. But the questions I kept asking was that would I ever be ready to be back? Back to being my old self? Back to the time when my family was complete? My manager came running to see me. I wanted to hide myself. Like a turtle going into its shell. Slowly, without anyone noticing. Her desk was right next to me, darn, she came too fast. No time for the lazy turtle to react.

She gave me a big bear hug and said, “I cannot event imagine what you must be going through. I am here if you need anything ”. She handled 40% of my workload so I could get some time with my family, so I will not be stressed. I felt warm. After 2 months of being in the love and compassion of friends and family, it was hard for me to leave and come back to this new place. I had no friends. Friends who could relate to me. Friends who knew my language or my culture. Friends, with whom I could share.

As the day progressed, several people stopped by and welcomed me back. So many of them offered to help and made sure I felt at home. After what felt like the longest day at work, I started packing my bag. Just when I was about to leave, I noticed the picture on my desk. A small frame, the size of a match box, that carried a picture of my brother and I. He gifted this to me when I left India in January to come here. When I met him for the last time, in Mumbai airport. The next time, I saw him, on September 25th, he wasn’t breathing.
As the sun set that evening and I looked at that picture of my brother, healing from his loss felt impossible. I went back to my car and cried for I cannot even remember how long.

That was where my story began. And then many sunsets have gone by.
On a windy cold day that winter, I made my mom wear jeans for the first time in her life. Sun set that evening and I cried.
On another snowy day, I made my father dance in that pretty white snow for the first time in his life. Sun set that evening and I cried.
On a ‘supposed-to be’ impossible but ‘totally possible in Minnesota’ type of cold day in May, my American manager moved a critical meeting by a day so I can spend that extra night with my family on a cabin. Sunset that evening too and I cried less this time.
On a different sunny day, my friend’s mom from Mexico who I met for the first time, made dinner for me. She and I never spoke a word that we both mutually understood. Sun set a bit later that night and I cried, maybe a bit lesser.
On a bright June morning, my parents left back to India. As sun set that night, it was clear that life will never stop for anyone. Anyone. I cried lesser again.
On a chilly fall afternoon, I met my Minnesotan therapist. She listened endlessly and spoke to me like she grew up with me. I wanted to cry every single time I came out of her office. But it became harder to cry. I don’t know if it was healing or running out of tear supply.
On a random day, our not so close Indian acquaintances invited us for dinner and became family-like very soon. Sun set that night too, I again had tears on my eyes. But this time, it was out of laughing non-stop for a silly joke.

Time will help heal, many told me. I don’t know about that. But, HUMANS around me did. This place, these people, with whom I thought I had no connection, welcomed me with wide open arms and proved me that grief does not need language to be understood and love does not need color to be shared.

As I narrate this story today, I am still not sure if I have healed fully. But I am HOME and hence, there is HOPE!