Anupama writes a letter to her 18-years old daughter. Read what she has to say.
These are the thoughts of a broken girl. An ordinary girl like you and me. An ordinary girl in a busy world trying to make sense of whatever life offers her.
They call her intelligent and beautiful. And so many girls would want to have her life. Some feel envy. Others feel inspired. When she is not in the town, everyone wants to know when she would be back, so that they can meet. And when she is in the town, her dates are full. Such is her life. She is popular and pretty. And everyone thought she had it all. That’s how she walks and talks. There is always an awe around her. How girls wanted to be her.
But she wanted to be like another woman. Like the girl he married. Like her, simple and without makeup. Every day she wondered if she should have never worn lipstick, maybe then he would have loved her. Or maybe less popular. Or have few friends just like the girl he chose. When other girls wanted to be like her, she wanted to be like the other girl.
She doubted if she was too much. Too talkative. Too friendly. Too loud. Too outspoken. When she sat with ten people she would wonder what it would be to sit with him and just have a cup of coffee. Every time she thought of it, her appetite died. She would keep sipping a coke in a corner.
Then one day, just on an ordinary day it hit her. Like a rock. Like a whirlpool. It hit her hard. She gasped for breath. Her throat gwent dry. That’s when it hit her that this is her life. Only hers and this is how it is meant to be. The Universe never misses an address. What belongs to you will never pass you. It will come to you.
At that moment she realized that the red lipstick belonged to her, her friends belonged to her, her shine belonged to her. They were delivered to her. She does not need to disown anything. And the ones who stayed are her tribe. They inspired her. Loved her. And nurtured. The ones who left were mere lessons. Not burdens to be carried.
That day she took her first step to accept her life. One step a day. And that is how the broken girl became whole. By accepting herself a bit each day.
How do you let go, what was never yours? Like deep one-sided love. Like those deep yearning of joy and tenderness, you felt on winter mornings. Which only you felt. When you walked through that hotel he once visited with his beloved, you wished you were her. Yet, the pain stings you. Like a bee. Like a dead flesh. You try to rationalize. Every night your brain says, you will end it, all. Yet every morning the love blooms, that becomes suffocating by afternoon and almost kills you at night. You know his routine, his food habit and the color of the shirt he will wear today. Red or Green, you always know. But you are never a part of it. Just an audience. And how it hurts to be one.
You read everything he did. You make his tastes yours and again he chooses someone else. You again try to be her. Your life seems to be a battle of becoming a beloved to someone who does not recognize your presence. Each day his absence is the only presence, you live, fight and cry with. You tell yourself how strong you are. How you don’t care. How he is not good enough for you. But each time he chooses someone else, you tell yourself how you were never good enough.
Then one day, you stop. You breathe in. You breathe out. You gasp for breath. Something is cracking. That crack you refused to acknowledge for years. It keeps cracking. And you find that you are broken open. You are scared. You cry. You break down to bits. You think you won’t be whole again. But you do. The broken heart has leaves you with gems. You pick up one. Then two. Then three. You hold them together and mourn for some time. Every death needs rituals. Your mourning is a ritual. It brings you the closure.
And that is how you are left with gems, the world craves for. And you become wise. You only show them to the ones who matter. But wherever you walk, you shine. That is the gift of a broken heart. The gift of mourning. The gift of letting go.
Image source: pixabay
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Proud Indian. Senior Writer at Women's Web. Columnist. Book Reviewer. Street Theatre - Aatish. Dreamer.
Relatable… It reminded me of my unrequited love. And worse… The mourning ritual has become eternal without an day. I am more broken everyday and I fear I might loose the gem too….:(
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