As life happens, we humans evolve in many ways to face what comes our way, all the ups and downs. In this evolution, it is often said that change is the best coach. I am a firm believer in it. But today, I want to reflect on what we lose in this transition. As we adapt to the many tunes of life, we lose a part of ourselves. What hurts the most is seeing that lost part being lost forever.

I know evolution is necessary. I know growth demands shedding, just like a tree grows new leaves each season. Yet knowing this does not make the loss easier. Two truths coexist: I am grateful for who I have become in life, and I grieve who I no longer get to be.

Let’s begin with the theory of being our unique self in each relationship. It is universal that we behave differently in each relation. What we are to our mom is very different from what we are to our siblings. A coffee‑wala friend sees a different side of me compared to a workplace buddy. A late‑night chat‑wala friend may know three things different about me than the college buddy with whom I shared five to six years of college life. If you are thinking why this is so, the underlying fact is that every human we meet in life, or have a relationship with, draws something unique from us. Thus, each relationship shapes or molds us distinctively.

This truth evolves as we move on in life, from growing up, changing school, leaving college, jumping jobs, relocating to a new city, marriage, becoming a parent, empty nest, old age, and so on. With each move or transition, we lose people, and we lose a part of ourselves. The part we don’t realize we lose, or the pieces no one gets to see or experience. This is well reflected in the old saying, you are a new version of yourself each season, each year. You may look the same, but you are not the same, not even the cells in our body are the same.

This is not the grief anyone recognizes or knows how to console us for. There is no cremation for the versions of us that quietly disappear. No rituals for the laughter that no longer shows up, the habits that fade, the selves that once had an audience and now live only in memory. Yet this grief is real, soft, persistent, and deeply personal.

I remember singing Mehbooba Mehbooba from Sholay loudly in my college days when friends would push me. After classes, cracking jokes, exchanging notes, eating samosas, and senseless singing were our daily routine. A few days back, when I heard the song, I realized it’s been 28 years since I last sang it. No one to push, and no singing. Those college friends are no longer around, so the girl I was in college is no longer the girl I am today.

In old days, landlines meant hours of chatting with school friends and impromptu meetings at each other’s homes. I loved giving surprises, be it flowers, gifts, or a simple greeting card. Somewhere along the way, I lost the surprise element while growing up in life. In the mobile‑phone era, there are multiple connections and friends on social media, but none who just drop in when I am unwell.

Perhaps you feel this too, when an old song plays, when a friend arrives unannounced, when you catch yourself laughing less freely than you once did. Maybe there are versions of you that existed only because of the people around you. When they left, you saw those versions quietly pack up too.

While the kids were growing up, crafting a birthday party theme, decorating the house, making surprise bags for kids, and baking cakes was the endless joy of motherhood. Now that the kids are grown, I have lost touch with the most creative party planner in me.

Driving in the rain, zig‑zag splashing water to make kids laugh out loud is lost, with the decline in monsoon and kids all grown up, now even embarrassed if I dare to do it. I miss that fun‑loving, crazy mom in me.

In my early workdays, I often saw men shying away from having a lady boss. Their emotions were a mix of frustration and pushbacks. Today, workplaces talk about embracing diversity. I still miss those gossip‑filled days of cribbing about men who couldn’t see a woman in a position of power. (Well, many of them still can’t!)

College late‑night studies, preparing for projects or performances, having tea at midnight on campus, sleeping at 5am to attend an 8am lecture, crying over corporate finance, and someone consoling me that this too shall pass! Now I usually sleep at 10 p.m. I miss the girl who would rock the college class.

In the early 2000s, going out of Delhi for a weekend getaway was so much fun. I remember in our first year of marriage we enjoyed a weekend holiday every month. Now getting outside Delhi is unimaginable with growing traffic. I miss those spontaneous drives and stops on the highway.

Earlier, friends would meet every weekend to chill and go out to share a meal. Inflation and busy lifestyles have left no one with time even to call. I miss seeing myself enjoy those weekend buffets.

In the absence of mobile phones, our chats were rich in gossip and laughter. Now, lately, I have noticed that while talking to me, some friends are scrolling through their Instagram pages. I miss their eyes meeting mine and sharing those crazy laughs.

Some jobs grow on you as we find the best people to share and find purpose together to sail through professional years. Workplace colleagues become friends with whom we grow up in adult life. When we shift jobs, those lost friends leave you lifeless and give you a hard time adjusting to new roles. I may not miss my old job, but I do miss my workplace friends. I am not the same with my new colleagues, and that hurts.

Earlier plans were made in two minutes. Now we send calendars and still cancel. I miss friendships being effortless.

In my early work years, saving in gold as an investment was my favorite. I would walk for miles to save money and instead put it into savings to buy gold. By the time of my marriage, I had saved so much to get my customized jewelry made. The girl who was once fond of buying gold can’t even imagine buying it today. The soaring price of gold crushed my jewelry‑design passion.

Earlier, a knock meant relatives dropping for tea. Now a knock means delivery. I miss a house full of relatives who just came to ask Kya chal raha hai.

My father not an expressive man, but he always made it clear that I was his favorite and pride. I would talk to him daily between 6 and 7 p.m. If he needed something, he would call. Since he passed away, I miss the part of me that fulfilled his wishes and shared new milestones to swell his heart and chest with pride. At 6pm, my heart still skips a beat, and I look at his picture longing for the voice I will never hear. Good news I often see me sharing with him in prayers.

There was a time when the word Maa filled my world without pause. Today, I live with the stillness it left behind, longing for the phone to ring even once.

A few days back I was going through my album of the Kailash Manasarovar sojourn. I smiled, I zoomed into faces, I replayed moments, and for a few minutes I became that version of me again, quiet, devoted, fearless. Then the phone screen went dark, and I was back in my room, missing that version like it was a person. Will I meet that joyous person in me on the next sojourn?

Maybe this is what living fully means, not holding on forever, but remembering with honesty. Letting ourselves grieve the people and the selves we lost, without rushing to replace them. Maybe those lost seasons will never come back again. As we don’t suffer from life, we suffer from memories lost with time. Every version of me existed because love existed, friendship was warm, family was central, work was passionate, belonging was at the core. If loss is the price of having lived deeply, then I accept the ache. Crying for what I lost and what I gained.