Tag: confidence

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