It’s been a year since my father passed away. A year of transformation for each one of us individually and collectively as a family. While we all have had our own share of emotions and learnings to live without Papa. I feel Maa has taken this gracefully than any one of us. This past year brought a new side of Maa (the side which was somewhere hidden in the blur of life. I wonder why I didn’t notice it earlier – maybe her life revolved around Papa so much that I saw her playing only one role), and I began to see her differently, not just as my mother, but as a strong woman in her own right.
A woman with her own story, her own dreams, her own emotions, and her own ways of holding the family together.
In the first few months, she was quiet. The air around her carried a stillness I had never seen before. She spoke less, moved slower, slept more, and carried her grief silently—buried in her voice and visible in her eyes. There were moments when I wished I could take her pain away, but I soon realized that this was her way of healing. She needed to move through her sorrow at her own pace, with dignity and privacy.
Slowly and gradually, she began to emerge again. Not as she was before, but as someone new, stronger, steadier, more grounded. She began tending to life again: openly sharing, calling family members, appreciating life and going out a bit. Small acts that rebuilt her, piece by piece.
She started expressing herself more, sometimes with honesty so sharp, it surprised me to see her speak so openly and candid. She calls often now, just to talk, to share something she heard, to ask what I ate, where I am, or to laugh about something small. She connects regularly, making sure we are all okay, yet also letting us see her, not just as a mother, but as a person rediscovering her own rhythm. Earlier, she would rush to pass the phone to Papa or not have the time to call. To see this transition is heartening.
She often reminds us siblings to take care of each other – check on each other or advice each other, her way of keeping the circle intact, of ensuring Papa’s voice still echoes through us. She appreciates more now, qualities in each of us, family time, sleep overs, festivals, etc. I notice she is calmer and more herself now. Where she was once more reserved, she now nurtures us with open appreciation, revealing the young girl in her who delights in others’ happiness.
And I know she still talks to my dad, heart to heart, in dreams, in the quiet moments when no one is around. At times on phone, her voice sounds heavier with emotions. She misses him deeply but never lets that longing weaken her. To us, she stands strong, composed, loving, unwavering. Her optimism inspires me to accept life’s twists and turns with courage, to stand and not be swamped by sorrow.
She looks after everyone, her children, her grandchildren, her own siblings, often without realizing how much she still holds us together. Yet beneath her strength, there is a quiet loneliness. The nights are the hardest, she once admitted. But she does not let it define her. She fills her days with meaning with prayers, cooking and memories shared in fragments.
She has become bolder, not because she stopped missing my dad, but because she learned to live fully even while missing him. She carries love differently now, not in presence, but in continuity.
Watching her, I see resilience in its purest form. Not loud or defiant, but calm, graceful, deeply human and feminine.
Rediscovering my mom has been like watching a light at the end of a tunnel, anticipatory, yet entirely new. She teaches me, every day, that love can evolve, that strength can be gentle, and that happiness is often a quiet decision made in the midst of longing.