“Not Everyone You Hold Close Is Holding You Back” A Reality Check!!!

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There comes a moment in life ‘for some’ when silence starts speaking louder than words, when people who once called your name with warmth now scroll past your existence like you were never there.

You gave them your time, your care, your sleepless nights, your quiet sacrifices. You built your days around their needs, offered your shoulder without being asked and stood beside them when no one else would. You mistook need for love and usefulness for worth. That’s where the heartbreak begins.

Because the truth??? The world has a sharp memory for your absence and a short one for your presence. The same hands you held through storms begin to slip away when you’re no longer the strong one. When your energy fades, or your utility dwindles or life knocks you down, they don’t look back. They move on. Quietly. Coldly. Almost professionally.

And that ache, that sudden shift, is not just loneliness. It’s betrayal in slow motion. You don’t lose people. You watch them choose not to stand by you. You don’t change. You simply stop serving their purpose.

We often think love is forever. But more often than not, it’s a contract signed in invisible ink, valid only while you’re needed. When you’re no longer useful, they edit you out like a scene that no longer fits the story. The same people you protected, defended, poured your life into, they forget. Not out of cruelty, but convenience. And that hurts even more.

In that quiet void, you begin to understand who truly loves you, not for what you give, but for who you are. And it often narrows down to a painfully small circle. Sometimes just your parents. Sometimes not even that. It’s a hard truth, but a necessary one.

The world doesn’t owe you permanence. So, give without losing yourself. Care without emptying your soul. Love but know where your center is. Because when the lights go out and the room empties, your peace will come not from who stayed, but from knowing you stayed true to yourself.

In the end, not everyone who walks with you is walking for you.
Some are just walking through… ~ Latika Teotia

Loved Anyway !!!

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If you’ve ever caught yourself, at any point in your life wondering-

“Would anyone still love me… if I wasn’t trying so hard?”
Or perhaps…
“Would they still accept me, still include me, still want me,if I stopped performing, stopped pleasing, stopped pretending?”

Then this- this is for you my dear reader.

If you ever wondered what would happen if you dropped the mask. If you let the tears come instead of swallowing them back. If you stopped being agreeable just to keep the peace and simply existed- messy, emotional, real.

Would love survive that version of you?

The one who is silent some days, sharp-edged on others.
The one whose softness hides beneath a strong act, whose truth is sometimes tangled, unsure or hard to hold?

If that question has ever lived quietly in your chest,
then let these words be your answer-

The world taught us early how to shine in ways that please. How to perform belonging. How to keep the room comfortable, even when we are falling apart inside.

But let me tell you something, not as advice, not as poetry, but as something that has lived in my heart-

The deepest kind of love, the rare, life-altering kind- is not the one that arrives when you’re at your best. It’s the one that stays when you’re not easy to be around. When your wounds are loud. When your walls are high. When your past walks into the room before you do and your self-doubt clings to every word you speak. It’s not love that demands you to be “better” before it offers warmth. It doesn’t turn away. It doesn’t bargain. It just stays. And when you taste that kind of love, even once, it changes you.

Not because it flatters you. But because it frees you.

You begin to unclench. To exhale. To believe, maybe for the first time, that you are not too much or too little. You are simply, deeply, heartbreakingly human. You stop shrinking to be accepted. You stop editing your soul to fit a frame that was never meant for you. Instead, you start standing tall in your flawed, magnificent skin and whisper-
Here I am. All of me. And I am loved.

That is the beginning of a homecoming. Not to someone else’s arms, but to your own heart.

Because being loved anyway, when the seams show, when the mascara runs, when the silence stretches, when your anger erupts like a storm, is where the sacred truly lives. It’s not the kind of love that wants something from you. It’s the kind that holds you when you have nothing left to give.

It’s the text that says- I’m here, even when you canceled again. It’s the hand that reaches for yours not when you’re glowing, but when you’re gasping. It’s someone sitting beside you in your storm- not trying to fix it, not handing you sunshine, just choosing not to leave.

And maybe, if we’re lucky, we taste this love not only from others,but from ourselves. Maybe we start to become the ones who stay. With our own hearts. With our mess. With our tired bodies and beautiful scars. And in that staying, with a gaze that holds instead of fixes, we begin to unlearn every version of ourselves we thought we had to become.

We are loved.
Still.
Not because of what we bring.
But because we exist.
And in that tender truth, the heart finally comes home…~ Latika Teotia

This Is Not The Time To Inspire !!! Let them be. Let them feel.Let them ache…

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You’ve probably noticed it too. These days, it’s somehow become fashionable to have a spiritual vocabulary. Everywhere you turn, someone is talking about acceptance, forgiveness, healing, following your heart and of course, the reigning queen of all modern advice- mindfulness.

It’s on your feed, in your inbox, printed on eco-friendly notebooks. There’s always someone- young, radiant, vaguely enlightened-looking, sitting cross-legged, sipping a hazelnut latte or some cruelty-free kombucha, gently reminding the world to “just let go.” They say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world. As if letting go is as simple as unfollowing a brand you’ve outgrown.

And I don’t mean to sound unkind, really. It’s not their fault, not entirely. But I do wonder, often out loud, sometimes to myself, sometimes into a coffee mug– how do they know what they’re talking about?

What exactly are they letting go of? A delayed Amazon order?
A slightly off-season Maldives vacation? The emotional burden of their oat milk not frothing properly? Because when you scratch the surface and not even too deeply, you find that a lot of this wisdom is floating. Untethered. It hasn’t been earned in the tough phase. It’s been collected. Quoted. Brushed in sepia filters and posted in soft, breathy tones.

And that’s where it begins to itch a little. Not because they’re talking.But because they’re preaching.

How do they understand the ache of standing in a long, sweaty bus queue every morning, wondering if you’ll even make it to work on time, because the boss doesn’t care, but your child’s school fee is due next week?

How do they understand what it feels like to love writing, painting, acting, or music, but to shelve those passions each day just to earn a living? Because passion needs paint. And paint needs money. How do you talk about dreams when, for so many, survival is the only goal?

The truth is- they don’t know. And honestly, that’s okay.
Until they start preaching.

Because let’s be real, for some of these so-called “privileged preachers,” hardship looks like this-

The car AC isn’t cooling properly because, heavens, the humidity is above 60%. Their tailor didn’t get the exact shade of mint green they envisioned for their Maldives vacation kaftan.
They’re emotionally distressed because their favourite sushi place in London was fully booked on a Friday night. And then there’s the full-blown existential crisis because their connecting flight got delayed and they nearly missed their spa-like Ayurvedic retreat in Sri Lanka, the one meant to ‘cleanse’ and ‘heal’ them from the trauma of…well, air travel, apparently.

Yet here they are- broadcasting advice about resilience. Forgive- they say. Surrender. Move on. All while sipping ginger turmeric shots and talking about ‘holding space’ from the comfort of plush rugs and ergonomic bean bags.

But real people, millions of them, carry bruises that don’t heal with affirmations. Real people live with heartbreak, rejection, betrayal, unspoken sacrifices and invisible weights. They don’t get the luxury of pausing life to heal. They have to carry on, because someone has to pay the bills, run the house or hold the family together.

So when someone tells you they’re sad, broken, grieving, angry, confused-
Don’t offer a quote from your sun-kissed yoga retreat.
Don’t silence them with a polished monologue.
Don’t condemn their feelings as if they’re an inconvenience to your curated calm.

Let them be. Let them feel. Let them rage. Let them ache. Let them curl up in bed. Because healing doesn’t start with advice.
It starts with being heard.

So here’s a humble request-If you haven’t walked through the fire, maybe don’t try to write the survival manual. Or at the very least- speak with humility. Be a listener, not a lecturer. Be a witness, not a performance. Be human, not a hashtag.

Because empathy isn’t spoken. It’s lived…~Latika Teotia

If today feels heavy, let this hold you !!!

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Maybe life fell apart when you least expected it. Maybe a loss came too suddenly, a goodbye, a moment that split your world in two. Maybe your heart feels like a house no one visits anymore. The world keeps moving, and you feel as if you’re standing still, aching, unseen, unsure.

So let this land on your heart like a warm hug- you’re still here.
And that’s not small, that’s sacred.

Life breaks things. But God doesn’t walk away from broken things. He draws near. He sits with you in the silence, in the heaviness, in the dark. He places His hand gently on your back and says, “I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.”

You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to explain. He already knows. And still, He stays.

You were never meant to carry this alone.You were meant to be comforted, to be held, to be reminded that even now “especially now” you are loved beyond measure.

One day, slowly, something inside you will rise again- its voice as gentle as love itself-
“You’re not lost. You’re safe. Come home to yourself- you were & are never alone.”
That’s how peace returns, not all at once, but softly, like love remembering where you live.

Until then… rest. Cry. Let the tears fall.
Call someone who loves you simply for existing.
Let yourself be human.

This is not the end of your story.
It’s just the part where heaven holds you a little closer, kisses your forehead and says,
“When you’re ready, we’ll walk again… together.”

Sending you a hug , woven from light and love, reaching straight to your soul.…because even if the world feels far, love is near. And I’m holding you there gently…~Latika Teotia

Perhaps Even God Is Still Figuring It Out – And I’m Still Waiting for Wisdom (That Never Downloaded)

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By age 13, I was absolutely sure of one thing- everyone older than me had life all sorted. College-goers? Oh, they definitely knew what they wanted and what their purpose was. Married people? Must be walking encyclopedias of emotional wisdom. And mothers? Don’t even get me started. I truly believed that anyone who could manage a child, run a home and handle a pressure cooker at the same time had to be operating with NASA-level intelligence.

But then I grew up. And turns out… it’s not quite like that.

By college, I was no clearer than a foggy windshield during monsoon season. I waited for enlightenment like one waits for a delayed train-standing at the station of life with a hopeful heart. Marriage came and brought its own syllabus of confusion. Motherhood???  Ohh yes. The time when you realize that even the child you gave birth to is now smarter than you, especially in settings, software and shortcuts.

Still, I waited. Because surely, once I hit 50, the Wisdom Fairy would descend, toss me a USB stick loaded with Life 101 and whisper, “Update complete.” Alas. I’m now 61. And guess what? Still clueless. Possibly even more clueless- just with added aches & pains.

I used to look up to my mother like she was born with a compass in her brain. Never missed a beat. She could fold a saree with her eyes closed, balance a budget without blinking, remember the entire grocery list without writing a word and serve the yummiest dishes without ever opening a cookbook. But maybe, just maybe, she was faking it, too. Maybe she also stood in front of the fridge some nights and whispered- “What on earth do they mean by ‘Eat before expiry’ when life itself comes with no such label?”

Now when I look at toddlers, I think- wow, they really know what they want. iPad, lollipop, which channel to watch, which cartoon series they’re hooked on and even which song is their absolute jam. No confusion there. And teenagers? Their fingers fly across screens like concert pianists on energy drinks. They speak fluent Techlish. They multitask while multitasking. They don’t even say “I don’t know” anymore. They say- “Let me Google that.”

I mean, look at the evidence. We have mosquitoes- but no real way to stop them from treating us like an open buffet.We send satellites to Mars, yet can’t find our own glasses (which are often on our head). Despite all these technological revolutions, we’re still clueless when it comes to everyday stuff- like how to fix a mood swing, how to stop tears that come out of nowhere, how to fall asleep when your brain suddenly decides it’s time to review every decision you’ve made since 1983. We’ve got smart TVs, smart fridges, smart phones… but no real clue how to switch off our overthinking.

Maybe, just maybe, The Creator is still experimenting. Still beta testing Earth. Perhaps the Big Bang was just a sneeze and the universe is still expanding because no one remembered to hit the stop button. Maybe heaven’s just a cosmic Helpdesk where even angels occasionally turn to one another and ask- “Wait… was free will part of the original plan or an accidental download?”

There’s some strange comfort in that thought.

If the Almighty is still in awe of His own inventions, still spinning galaxies like a child twirling a globe- just to see where the finger lands- then maybe I can forgive myself for not knowing how to properly use half the features on my phone or half the rules of life.

Because here’s the fun, dear reader:

Nobody has it figured out. They’re just better at nodding wisely while Googling quietly.

So cheers to lifelong confusion, to learning and unlearning, to being 60 and still wondering what you’ll be when you grow up. If God’s still wondering what to do with Jupiter’s 79 moons, I think we’re in fine company…~ Latika Teotia

Dear Papa- A Letter To My Father !

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Dear Papa,

Now, when I sit quietly and look back, my heart overflows.

I feel so incredibly blessed that you were my father- so forward-thinking, so quietly strong, so deeply kind. In a time when most daughters were still being told to stay quiet and small, you gave me the wings to fly. Imagine, Papa… 1964 and you never once made me feel like I was “just a girl.” You never treated your daughter any different from your sons. There were no lines, no labels, no “this is not for you.” There was only love. Only freedom. And trust.

You gave us all the same freedom to run, to fall, to try, to speak up- to be.

I played basketball when few girls did. I explored every silly idea that popped into my head. I made mistakes- oh, so sooo many-  and not once did you scold me into silence. You never said, “I told you so.” Instead, you stood by with that quiet smile and let me learn. You let me grow. You let me become.

Papa, you made space for my voice before I even knew how to use it. You listened. You let me disagree. You taught me that love doesn’t control- it trusts.

It’s because of you that I am the mother I am today. Because of you, I know that raising a child isn’t about molding them- it’s about holding them gently as they unfold into who they are meant to be. You were my greatest teacher. Not with lectures -but with life. With how you lived, how you loved, how you simply showed up.

You never gave up on me, even during the rough patches- those times I didn’t even believe in myself. And because of that, I never give up on my children either.

When Apoorva was born with cerebral palsy, I didn’t collapse under the weight of why us? I didn’t let pity pull me down. I remembered you. Your strength. Your steady faith. I took it as a challenge- a chance to give her the same kind of love and belief you once gave me. Not a single day did I let her feel less. Not once did I let the world’s opinions become her limits. And maybe that’s why she shines today- confident, capable, with a master’s degree and a heart full of fire. She is not our weakness, Papa-  she is our light.

And Aman-  oh, our brave boy- when he met with that terrifying accident at six, when doctors spoke in hushed voices about ruptured organs (pancreas and intestines)  and the uncertainty ahead, I held on to the faith I saw in you all my life. I chose hope. I chose belief. And today, he runs marathons with the same fierce spirit I once saw in your eyes. I see you in him. I see you in both of them.

You’re not gone, Papa. Not really. You are woven into every strength I carry, every word of encouragement I give, every time I hold space for my children to simply be. You are still teaching me- quietly, invisibly- just like you always did.

You were and will always be, my hero. My guide. My soft place to fall. In a world that’s always rushing, you were stillness. In a world that judged, you understood. In a world full of noise, you heard me.

I miss you every single day. Sometimes the ache is so quiet, it catches me off guard- like a whisper in the wind or the way the sun filters through the trees. But I smile too, because I know – you’re still here. In my heart. In my children. In every choice I make with love.

Thank you, Papa… for everything. For being you.

With all the love in the world,
Your daughter

~Latika Teotia

Control Disguised As Concern Pushes Love Away !!!

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If you scrutinize and correct every move your family makes, you’re not guiding – you’re suffocating. Control disguised as concern pushes love away.

No one thrives under a microscope. Not your spouse. Not your children. Not your parents. Eventually, silence will replace conversation. Distance will replace warmth. And one day, you’ll look around and wonder why you’re standing alone.

Strong families aren’t built by one person dictating- but by everyone contributing. Collective energy. Shared decisions. Mutual respect. That’s what makes a home feel like home.

Try loosening the grip. Start trusting a little more.
Because when every voice is heard, love becomes the loudest one.
And when love leads, no one walks alone…~Latika Teotia

Trust Through Trials !!!

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There is no weight too heavy for God to lift, no dream too distant for Him to bring to life. There is no chain too strong that He cannot break, no rift too deep that He cannot mend and no wound too raw that He cannot heal. He sees the longings you whisper in silence, the burdens you carry in the quiet hours, and the needs that leave your heart aching. Place it all at His feet-your hopes, your hurts and your hidden fears and trust that the One who shaped the stars can surely take care of you…~Latika Teotia

For Indian Men-A Smooth Landing After Retirement (Hopefully)

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It’s not really their fault, is it?

Most Indian men over 60 were raised in a certain kind of world. A world where boys were treated like mini-royalty. The message was clear- ‘Beta, you just sit. Your food is coming. Don’t touch the broom- kya ladkiyon waala kaam karega?’

Even if a boy tried to fold a towel, someone would whisper as if he was committing a family scandal. If a guest arrived, he was told to continue sitting like a sofa ornament, while his old mother, limping, wheezing, but determined-would get up and serve water.

All this pampering, while done with love, unknowingly trained him to become what we now call a retired volcano- quiet for decades, but full of hidden heat the moment someone asks him to chop onions.

So what happens? He grows up, gets married, and the lovely wife takes over the ‘mothering’ department. She cooks, cleans, remembers everyone’s birthdays, and probably packs his suitcase when he goes on office trips.

But then comes retirement. Ah yes. The golden years. The peaceful phase of life.
Except… the house is still running. Meals are still needed. Clothes don’t iron themselves. The maid has gone to her village and may or may not return before Diwali 2029.

Suddenly, the wife looks at him with hope- and possibly a mop.

Now comes the comedy. Our dear Mr. Retired Gentleman doesn’t know where the atta is kept, how the pressure cooker works, or why on earth the washing machine makes that sound.

Retirement hits hard, but nothing hits harder than a man staring at a pressure cooker like it owes him money. Some even start hunting for post-retirement jobs- not for income, but just to escape the emotional trauma of boiling rice.

He is clueless. Not lazy. Not mean. Just… completely untrained.

And when the wife asks for help, he feels cornered.

You can’t expect a man to suddenly change overnight- especially when, all his life, he’s been told that helping in the house is something girly, something for women.
His conscious mind might try, but that programming runs deep.
He feels doing housework lowers his dignity. It hurts his self-esteem.
He starts to believe he’s being asked to help only because he has retired.
It feels like a loss of control. Of respect. And yes, it deeply hurts him.
The poor man is not being stubborn- he’s just emotionally unprepared.

So dear mothers of sons- listen up.
Your baby boy may look cute now while he refuses to tie his shoelaces or pick up his plate- but please, do him a favour. Teach him life skills. Show him that cleaning is not a punishment. Cooking is not weakness. These are survival skills. Just like swimming, banking, and remembering anniversaries.

And to the men: try. Learn. Laugh at your mistakes. Don’t panic if the daal overflows. Just clean it and carry on. No one is taking your ‘man card’ away because you made a cup of tea.

In fact, the day you can make hot parathas and still hum old film songs, you’ll be the hero of the house and a role model for your grandchildren.

Let’s raise boys who grow into men that don’t feel less when they do more at home.
Because a house becomes a home when everyone helps- even the one wearing a vest and retired glory… ~Latika Teotia

 

Sorry I’m Not Sorry Anymore !!!

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It didn’t happen like in the movies. No storm, no haunting piano music, not even a dramatic sigh. Just me sitting with a lukewarm cup of chai that I’d reheated twice and still hadn’t sipped, staring blankly at a message blinking on my phone  “Beta, we’re expecting you at the family dinner. Don’t be late. It’s important.”

Important.

That word. Everyone throws it around like a rock into your pond of peace. Birthdays, pujas, surprise parties, even the neighbour’s cat’s funeral, everything becomes “important.”

But no one ever asks, “Important for whom?”

I looked at my calendar.( If it were a person, I’d block it) Full. Every hour blocked like a prison cell.

Some meetings had red stars. Others had reminders, warnings, emojis.

One even had ‘CRUCIAL-DO NOT CANCEL’  in all caps possibly in blood.

I cancelled it. Just like that.

And felt this strange, almost illegal calm spreading in my chest, like someone had finally found the mute button on my life.

That was the day I stopped being nice.

I didn’t go to the family dinner. They were stunned.
I didn’t concoct ten delicate excuses like migraine or  ran out of petrol while on foot.
I simply said “I won’t be able to make it.”
No explanation.
No apology.
And here’s the scandal- ‘I survived’.

I didn’t throw a party I had half-planned. I didn’t offer my guest room to that cousin who always walks in with a suitcase and criticism. I said, Sorry, I won’t be able to host this time. And lived.

When my kids began throwing tantrums like they were auditioning for a drama school, I didn’t bribe them with screen time or guilt. I drew a line. A calm, firm one. And when they yelled, We’ll go to Dadi’s house!  I said, Okay. Just text me when you reach. They stayed.

One friend-lovely, exhausting-kept mistaking my silence for consent.. Always late, always interrupting, always unloading. That day, I said-

You know, I don’t appreciate being talked over like that. Silence. Sweet, awkward silence.

It felt like fresh air in a room that had smelled like expired apologies since 2014.

At home, I was taking care of a sick relative. Day in, day out. A full-time nurse, unpaid, untrained and quietly crumbling. One evening, while crushing yet another tablet with the back of a spoon, I realized, I was falling apart so someone else could stay stitched. The next day, I hired help. Professional. Kind. Trained. I sat alone that evening and cried, not out of guilt, but relief.

It wasn’t a selfish revolution. It was a gentle reclaiming.

Of breath. Of peace. Of a version of me who wasn’t always smiling through clenched teeth, sprinkling glitter over burnout.

Because let’s face it, if pleasing people burned calories, some of us would’ve evaporated by now.

We are not honeycombs. We are not built to keep dripping sweetness just because it’s expected.

We’re not cruel when we say no.
We’re not mean when we choose peace.
We’re not selfish when we rest.

We’re just… finally listening. To ourselves. The same self that spent years learning to ignore its own needs for the sake of decorum, duty and drama.

The truth is, you can take care of others and yourself, but not when you’re empty. Not when you’re dry. And certainly not when you are faking fine.

So pause. Refuse. Cancel. Speak. Rest. Reheat your chai and actually drink it this time.

And one day, without realizing it, you’ll lie down, guilt-free, on a bed that smells like freshly washed sheets and you’ll sleep. Deeply. Kindly. As if the world didn’t need fixing tonight.

Because it doesn’t.

And neither do you.

And yes, you will live to tell the tale… ~Latika Teotia