Life keeps unfolding, regardless of what we’re carrying within us. Some days it feels gentle, other days overwhelming — but it never stops moving.
The death of my father didn’t hit me immediately.
When it happened, I went into a deeper state of sorrow than I had ever known — but strangely, not in tears. There was an unspoken pressure to be practical, to show strength, to appear composed before society. I was confused and believed staying composed was the same as being strong. More than that, I couldn’t mourn to the fullest because I was afraid to accept the reality that he was no more. Somewhere between responsibilities and expectations, I convinced myself that this was what coping looked like. In doing so, I never allowed myself to grieve fully.
As days passed, the silence grew louder.
I began missing my father like never before — in everyday moments, in thoughts I wanted to share, in reflexes that still expected his presence. Slowly, almost unnoticed, I started slipping into what felt like depression! Daily life began to feel heavy. Commute, work, routine — everything felt out of control. I lost my calm frequently. My mind turned restless. I punished myself mentally with endless overthinking — a kind of mental diarrhea that wouldn’t let me rest.
It took one quiet moment of honesty to realize: something isn’t right.
That realization didn’t come dramatically. It came gently — like a tap on the shoulder from within. I paused and turned inward. I’ve always believed in introspection, but this time it wasn’t philosophical or occasional — it was necessary for survival. For five to six days, I sat with my thoughts, my emotions, and my questions. I even used a bit of ChatGPT — not for answers, but to help me frame the questions I was afraid to ask myself.
What I discovered wasn’t new, but it was confronting.
The root of my suffering was attachment. I wasn’t just grieving my father — I was resisting a reality I could not change. I was attached to how things were supposed to be, to the version of life where he still existed physically, to the comfort of certainty. That resistance amplified the pain. Once I saw this clearly, something shifted. I realized that mourning doesn’t have one correct form. I had mourned — just not in tears or rituals. I mourned through silence, through responsibility, through carrying on when I wasn’t ready.
Alongside introspection, I found unexpected strength in simple spiritual reinforcements. Listening to Namakam, Chamakam, and the Hanuman Chalisa! It wasn’t about devotion or ritual for me — it was about grounding. The rhythm, the familiarity, and the calm they brought, helped steady my mind on days when thoughts refused to slow down. They gave me structure when emotions felt scattered, and silence when my mind was too loud. In many ways, they became anchors — not of faith alone, but of inner stability
Acceptance didn’t erase the pain — but it softened it.
I began to understand that my father wouldn’t have wanted me to suffer endlessly. Wherever he is, I believe he would want us to live fully, to be happy, and to move forward with strength — not sorrow. Honoring him didn’t mean holding on to grief forever; it meant choosing life consciously. Celebrating life — just as sincerely in death as in birth.
This process didn’t “fix” me overnight.
But it helped me start putting myself together — piece by piece. I learned to be kinder to my mind. To pause when thoughts spiral. To remind myself that strength isn’t silence, and healing isn’t linear. Mental health isn’t something that breaks suddenly; it erodes quietly when ignored. Today, I’m still learning. Still missing him. Still human. But I’m calmer. More aware. More accepting. I’ve stopped fighting what I cannot control and started focusing on how I choose to live.
Life, after all, is fair in its own way. It gives us choices — even in grief. Especially in grief.
Putting myself together didn’t mean becoming whole again. It meant allowing myself to be incomplete — and still choosing to live fully.
And finally, I’ve come to realize this: this is not a destination, but a process — ongoing, imperfect, and deeply personal. Putting yourself together is something you return to, again and again, at different stages of life. It is important for every one of us, whether we acknowledge it or not. I’m reminded of a simple yet powerful line from Virat Kohli — if you win, you celebrate; if not, you recalibrate 😉. That, perhaps, is life in its simplest form: honor the moments of joy, learn from the moments of loss, and keep moving forward with awareness.
— Shock
