How love, patience and gentleness can soften even the deepest, oldest fears…!!!

Posted on

When Fear Finally Loosens Its Grip !!!

We all carry our past like a long shadow- following us, shaping us, sometimes even speaking for us.
But a shadow is not skin.
A memory is not identity.
And the ways we once survived are not the limits of who we can become.

This is a story of someone who forgot that. Until someone reminded her gently. Here it goes…

Sanjana had built a quiet, steady life for herself. Work. A small rented apartment. A balcony full of plants she talked to more than people.

It was enough. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

She didn’t hate marriage or relationships.She just didn’t trust it.

Reason- Growing up in a home where love was a wound, not a warmth, does something to a child. Her parents didn’t fight daily-they fought in cycles. Explosions then silence.Apologies then distance. Promises then disappointment.

By the time she turned twelve, she had learned a heartbreaking truth- some houses have walls, but no refuge.

As she grew older, the idea of marriage didn’t scare her as much as the idea of repeating the story she had escaped. No she wasn’t cynical. She was just cautious. And caution, repeated long enough, becomes identity.

Then Vikram joined her team.

He wasn’t the kind of man who filled a room- he softened it. He spoke slowly, as if words deserved respect. He listened the way people do when they genuinely care.

There was a gentleness in him that felt like truth- and truth can be terrifying when you have spent your whole life expecting the ground to crack beneath you.

Without trying, he began to understand her in ways she didn’t expect.

The way she held her mug with both hands, as if warmth made her feel safer. How she always chose the corner seat in meetings, back to the wall, eyes on every exit. How cloudy days made her quieter, like the sky pulled old memories forward.

He sensed the parts of her she thought she hid well- the caution in her smile, the breath before vulnerability, the stiffness in her shoulders whenever marriage jokes floated around.

He didn’t ask why.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t try to fix her.

He simply stayed- consistent, steady, unthreatening.

And in the slow way real things happen,Sanjana began to like him.
Quietly.
Unwillingly.
Honestly.

She didn’t fall for him- there was no dramatic plunge.
She simply…softened.

She waited for his “Good morning.” She laughed without checking who was watching. She listened for his footsteps in the corridor.

But liking someone is one thing.
Believing your future won’t repeat your — that is an entirely different battle.

And it was a battle she fought quietly inside her chest.

One evening, as they walked toward the parking lot, the sky soft behind them, Vikram stopped.

He looked at her- not intensely, not dramatically but with a sincerity that went straight to her heartbeat and said-

“Sanjana…I don’t want to assume anything. But I care for you. More than I have said. And if you ever feel the same, I’d like to live my life with you.”

Simple words.
Gentle tone.
And her world tilted.

Not with joy.But with fear disguised as logic.

Her mind didn’t let her hear him. It let her hear echoes-

What if he changes?
What if I choose wrong?
What if love runs out?
What if I end up like them?

Sometimes the heart isn’t afraid of love at all- it’s afraid of reliving a story it never agreed to.

Fear is clever. It knows how to mimic wisdom.

“I need time”- she whispered.

Vikram nodded- not hurt, not impatient. Just respectful.

But in his eyes, she saw something she wasn’t ready for-

“Hope” And hope is terrifying when you have only ever known survival.

She went home with a heaviness she couldn’t explain.Sitting by her window, staring at the skyline, she felt split into two versions of herself-

One who wanted to run.
One who wanted to stay.

Then her phone buzzed.

A message from him- “No rush. No pressure. Some stories need slower chapters.”

She read it three times.

Not because it was poetic-but because it was safe.

For the first time, she realized-She wasn’t scared of Vikram.
She was scared of her memories. Of repeating a hurt she didn’t choose. Of stepping into something she had never seen succeed.

Then another thought arrived- quiet, almost shy-

What if love isn’t a trap?
What if love can be a soft landing?

The right person doesn’t erase your fears, they help you loosen your grip on them.

Here is the truth we lose in the noise of old fear-

We mistake our wounds for our worth.
We mistake trauma for temperament.
We mistake our guardrails for identity.

But the past is only proof that we lived through something-not proof that we must keep living the same way.

We get to outgrow the beliefs born in dark rooms.
We get to leave behind the versions of ourselves built for survival, not joy.

We get to choose again.

Sanjana closed her eyes and took a long, steady breath.

Nothing magical happened. No sudden courage.No dramatic transformation.

Just a small shift.

A loosening. A softening. Like a locked door quietly clicking open from the inside.

Maybe she wasn’t ready to say yes today.

But for the first time in her life, she wasn’t saying no out of fear.
And sometimes, that alone is the beginning of a whole new life.

“Healing begins the moment we stop letting old wounds choose our future.”

Yes… the ground may feel safe, but real living begins when we dare to lift our eyes.

Every story that shaped us can be thanked, honoured and then gently laid down.

Honouring the journey, Embracing new beginnings…!!!

Posted on

Grateful for 2025, Hopeful for 2026 !!!

As this year gently folds itself away, let’s make a wise and loving choice…for ourselves.

Let us keep the memories that made us smile, the moments that softened us, the lessons that quietly shaped our strength. And let us release the rest. Not with bitterness. Not with anger. Simply with understanding. Some experiences came to teach us, not to stay with us forever.

We don’t have to carry every wound into the next chapter. We don’t have to honour pain just because it stayed longer than it should have. The scars left by difficult relationships, draining workplaces or broken family bonds do not define our worth. They are reminders of resilience, not measures of who we are. And survival, beautiful soul, is not the destination- healing is.

From here on, may we learn to meet ourselves with gentler eyes. To choose patience over self-blame. Compassion over criticism. May we stop accepting anything less than respect, kindness and love- first from ourselves and then from the world. May we finally tend to the parts of us that were quiet for too long.

As 2025 closes its chapter, I want to thank each of you- for the warmth, the shared moments, the silent support and the kindness that mattered more than you know. You have been part of this journey and that will always be held with gratitude.

As we step into 2026, let’s travel lighter and freer- carrying forward only what truly serves us.

My prayer for you dear friend…May the days ahead be kind to you and your family. May you step into 2026 feeling richer in spirit, happier at heart and full of hope. May it bring you good health, abundant opportunities  and moments that make the journey truly meaningful.

Much love, always.

~Latika Teotia

 

A letter to every girl who ever looked in the mirror and felt not enough !!!

Posted on

In the Age of Filters, We Forgot What Beauty Feels Like !!!

Between ring lights and retouching, our daughters are losing the art of seeing themselves with kindness…

My dear girl,

you were born complete, not waiting for filters to finish you.

There was a time when mirrors were simple. They showed us our faces-not our flaws. We smiled into them without zooming in and we walked away without questioning our worth.

But somewhere along the way, something shifted. Now, mirrors speak louder than minds. They tell young girls how much thinner, fairer or smoother they should be -how their value depends on how close they come to someone else’s version of perfect.

The world has become a loud classroom that teaches one quiet lie- that beauty can be bought.

Scroll through any screen today and you’ll meet a thousand perfect faces. Same smiles. Same sculpted noses. Same unwrinkled expressions. Each post whispers- You could look like this too- if you tried harder.

And somewhere, a young girl- perhaps sixteen, perhaps you once — sits in her room, staring at a glowing screen. She compares her reflection to someone who doesn’t even look like herself anymore. She doesn’t realize that behind that flawless skin are filters, edits and the quiet fear of fading relevance.

She sighs, opens another app and thinks-
“Maybe if I change just one thing, I’ll feel better about me.”

That’s how it begins- not with vanity, but with doubt.

So girls start early. They hide freckles under foundation.
They contour their childhood away. They whisper to themselves, just one more change and I’ll be enough.

What begins as a dream of confidence slowly becomes a dependence on correction. But the truth, dear one, is that nothing is missing from you. You don’t need to chase perfection- you only need to return to yourself.

You were never meant to look like anyone else. You were meant to glow like you.

Actually, we have raised a generation that knows how to pose better than it knows how to pause. Every selfie is a small audition for acceptance. Every heart icon a fragile validation. But it’s high time we teach our daughters and lovingly tell them that beauty was never meant to compete- it was meant to connect.

Your face tells a story- of laughter, lessons, heartbreak and becoming. That story is your light. And the world doesn’t need another copy- it needs your truth.

Yes, society whispers differently. It rewards the flawless and celebrates the filtered. But remember this-

No surgeon’s hand can sculpt confidence.
No cream can lighten self-doubt.
And no camera can capture what a kind heart radiates.

Beauty that depends on approval will always feel fragile. But beauty that grows from acceptance- that is strength, peace and freedom.

To every girl reading this- your reflection is not a test. It is not a project to be perfected, but a poem to be understood. You can choose to be whole, without anyone else’s permission.

And one day, you’ll look in the mirror and smile- not because it shows perfection, but because it shows truth.

And truth, dear girl, is the most radiant thing you will ever wear.

“The world will try to sell you mirrors. But your real beauty begins the moment you start seeing yourself with kindness.”

~Latika Teotia

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

Posted on

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

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

Posted on

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

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

Posted on

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

Control Disguised As Concern Pushes Love Away !!!

Posted on

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

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

Posted on

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 !!!

Posted on

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

Where Dandelions Dance !!!

Posted on

Once lived Mira, a sculptor who believed the world could be chiseled into perfection and so could the choreography of daily life. She aligned her brushes by size, wore spotless white, and believed life would be beautiful and peace would arrive when everything was flawless.

But nothing ever truly was. Her neighbor laughed too loud. Her brother forgot birthdays. Even her heart skipped beats without asking.

One day, her masterpiece, a statue titled Flawless Humanity, cracked during a storm. Mira sat beside the pieces, tools in hand, but didn’t move. For the first time, she simply watched the break, the silence, the wild, messy garden she’d always tried to tame. And something shifted.

She didn’t fix the statue. She filled the crack with gold, wore color again, laughed without flinching, listened without judgment. She stopped trying to fix people and started understanding them.

In that quiet acceptance, peace finally arrived,not polished, but soft, warm, and alive.

She never sculpted again, but she grew a garden. A wild, uneven one where everything had a place.
Flaws included.
Laughter included.

Dandelions especially. Perfection retired the day Mira met a dandelion and it blew her mind.Turns out, wild things don’t queue up, they dance…~LatikaTeotia