Dear my still-naive 22-year-old,
The man who gives you butterflies, who makes the rain feel like mango blossoms blooming on dry branches, who makes you giddy over texts and shy glances—one day, being near him will feel like standing barefoot on shards of glass. And when that day comes, you’ll learn: it’s okay.
The phone call you wait for all day, where you giggle while telling him you cracked eggs to make khagina—those calls will vanish. You’ll see him in person all day, yet want to leave the room because the air will grow heavy, tight, silent. Like sitting through a song that once lifted you but now plays off-key. You’ll learn: it’s okay.
The man you defied your world for—your work, your rules, your parents—because he lit you up from the inside, made you feel like an entire festival of lights… one day, you’ll sit across from him and wonder when he became a stranger in familiar skin. You’ll look for the spark you fell in love with and find a dull flicker. You’ll beg yourself to stop searching, and learn to accept the dimming. And yes—you’ll learn, again: it’s okay.
He who once called you the most beautiful person he’d ever known will now question your ways, your beliefs, your very sense of self. You’ll ache to bring back the version of him that made you feel enough. You’ll try to mold yourself like soft clay, reshaping pieces to please him—only to realize you’re slowly erasing your fingerprints. And when the realization settles in like cold rain, it will whisper what you’d been trying not to hear: nothing lasts forever. And still, you’ll learn: it’s okay.
Remember how your father told you, never lose your identity? At the time, it felt like good advice. But love made you reckless. You sprinted toward it, arms open, thinking you’d finally found your home. You believed love was enough to build a life on. But now, in your quiet moments, you’ll understand: even the strongest houses crumble without a foundation rooted in self.
You weren’t born to orbit someone else’s life. You came here to be your own sun.
And when that thought becomes your truth—not just something you repeat to feel better—you’ll begin to stand taller. You’ll gather the scattered pieces, brush off the dust, and claim your space. Not as someone’s half, but as your whole self. And that day, you’ll not only learn—it will feel divine.
In the middle of it all, you’ll rediscover the flavors of your truth. Dal and rice, once a routine meal, will feel like warm hugs again. The alu tikki that once thrilled you because he liked it will begin to feel like someone else’s nostalgia. But that egg roll, the one made exactly how it was back home—that will taste like your roots, your story, your kitchen. You’ll remember: you were never lost. You just went quiet for a while.
So world, here’s what I want you to know:
Through every twist and heartache, I’ve held onto the bolts that make me me. I’ve watered the wilted parts, stitched up the torn pieces, and found the soft voice inside me again. The innocent believer I once was? She’s still here. Not untouched, but unbroken. Changed, yes. But never gone.
And now, I know—with all my heart—it’s not just okay.
It’s powerful.