The Great Tutor Hunt: Raising a Seven-Year-Old in the Age of Academic Anxiety

It's so heartwarming and an absolute delight to listen to my half-Bengali, fully-fraud Mallu child speak almost fluent Tamil. “Ay, chinna paiyya, unakku Tamil pesa theriyuma?”, “Podum”, “Venda” and so on.

However, the flip side of this language knowledge is a never-ending flow of tuition masters and ma'ams who just keep quitting as he settles into learning with them. Home tutors are a dying trade, unlike when I was in school and college.

My life's greatest dilemma is no longer weight loss, perimenopause, going to the office and so on. It is finding the right tutors for my son.

Schools are aggressively competitive now, at such a tender age of six and upwards. Children compare marks, teachers pass remarks and, altogether, it's a daily circus that both parent and child have to deal with every single day for the next decade. It's a nightmare beyond the worst nightmares.

At this point, I'm half willing to listen to him and pull him out of school, or let him be an electronics teacher, as he says he wants to be. Plumbers and electricians in the US are paid as much as corporate workers in India. I'm tempted to let him drop out of school, but the good little Indian mommy in me disagrees. Sigh!

In the battle of brain versus heart, the brain wins this round hands down. So, while I'm filled with joy listening to my boy sing “Thalapathi Kacheri”, I'm also anxious that he continues to learn languages with the same energy and gusto, regardless of the cacophony of tutors who walk in and out of his life.

Each time a good one quits, his little heart breaks, and mine breaks along with his. 

Life indeed is hard for a seven-year-old today.

Things You Should—and Shouldn’t—Say to a Widow

Things not to say to a 34-year-old widow with a two-year-old:

“Be strong.”

“No choice now but to move forward bravely.”

“Get re-married ASAP!”

“He’s your angel in heaven, watching over you for life.”

Things you can actually say:

“Find a good therapist. You need it.”

“Take all the time in the world to mourn this loss.”

“I don’t understand what you’re going through, but you will come out of this. I promise.”

“You’re a singha ponnu — you can raise a child, you can step out to work, you can move mountains. Go ahead and do whatever you want. We’re with you every step of the way.”

Now, coming to the idiotic things that you must not say to a young widow, an old widow, a middle-aged widow — or a widower, for that matter.

The strength came from the partner they just lost. So please don’t ever ask them to “be strong”.

Not in that moment.

And definitely not ten years later.

Remarriage is a deeply personal choice. Please proceed with your matchmaking with people whose hearts didn’t break into a zillion tiny pieces.

And then there is grief.

Grief is not linear.

You’ll find yourself crying in the middle of eating a baked New York cheesecake from a Starbucks takeaway box, on a sunny Sunday, sitting at your kitchen counter.

You’ll also burst into tears when you see a band setting up a stage in the middle of a busy mall.

There will be days when you think you are doing absolutely fine, only to be blindsided by something completely ordinary.

A song.

A smell.

A place.

A random conversation.

A photograph.

And suddenly, you are right back there.

But the good news is that, with the passage of time, these triggers become less violent.

They become calmer, almost as though they have always existed somewhere inside your brain.

You feel the sadness and choose to flow with it.

Sometimes it feels like a heaviness in your chest.

Sometimes it comes as silent tears.

Sometimes you don't even know why you're crying.

And that's okay.

Simply accept those feelings of unforgotten love, and eventually, you find your own version of healing.

Maybe you'll wake up one day feeling absolutely calm about the tsunami of destruction that is your love life.

Or maybe you won't.

Guess what, though?

Both feelings are completely acceptable.

There is no correct timeline for grief.

There is no rulebook for how a widow or widower is supposed to feel, behave, heal, date, remarry, work, parent, laugh, cry or move on.

All you have to do is accept what comes.

And go with the flow.

The Clarity of Grief: What Losing My Partner Taught Me About Friendship

The people who leave you or misunderstand you when you need them the most—when you are in absolute turmoil—belong to a special category of vermin (oops, people) whom you never forget for the rest of your life. It is strange how people you have grown up with and known for decades can suddenly just flip off your radar.

For me, it all happened exactly five years ago. That terrible moment in my life brought immense clarity about who my real friends were, and who never truly were to begin with. Death, especially at a morbidly young age, is distressing enough on its own. It becomes even more overwhelming when accompanied by the sudden, lifelong responsibility of fending for another human being.

It is funny how people choose to come and speak utter rubbish to you at such a heartbreaking time. The comments thrown my way ranged from, "Oh, you shouldn't have kept rubbing the fluids that came out of the body while it was placed in the crematorium." To this, I promptly replied, "That was not a dead body or a piece of meat. That was my partner and the father of my child, and he looked like he was in discomfort." This absolute "gem" came from someone my late husband deeply adored.

His death brought to the fore the terrible decisions we had both made as a couple when it came to befriending people. He definitely had a few select, lousy characters around him, and apparently, so did I. Those relationships and friendships ended the moment he passed, and I haven't looked back since.As a good friend of over two decades always tells me: "You're an empath, Gayatri. That means people will always come to you with their life issues and drain you; they are called energy vampires. Pick your circles very carefully and stick to them. You can't solve everybody's life problems, and you shouldn't—it's not your job. You have plenty on your plate."

Perhaps he is right. I have always felt for people more than they have ever felt for me. I have had girlfriends cry on my shoulder over one-night stands that didn't turn out well, yet none of them were anywhere in sight when I lost my partner of 13 years. They were clearly questionable friendship choices. I never reached out to those folks after my husband passed, because I see their personalities with so much more understanding and clarity now.

Terrible life experiences are important for character building, but ultimately, it is your battle to fight alone. Dumping it on friends and family is not the solution—not now, not ever. In my late husband's words: "Figure it out." That is exactly what I have been doing ever since my life changed five years ago.

Coming back to the main point of this piece: always remember the ones who chose to leave when you needed them the most, and make wiser decisions when it comes to your social circles.

The Ball Pit Chronicles: Welcome to the Next Level

Riaan dragged me to one of his favourite playzones bright and early this morning. As usual, we were the first customers, meaning he got to sweep the entire play area with his socks alongside the cleaning staff. The thing is, it was much more crowded than usual this morning because another Riaan was celebrating his birthday in the same area.

Bunches of mothers stood together, discussing baby milestones. Hearing snippets of their conversation, I was super tempted to butt in. The place was flooded with nannies, mothers, fathers, and an assortment of fluffy-looking children—honestly, fluffier than the balls in the ball pit. I definitely wanted to kidnap one or two of them... okay, three, not going to lie.

Going back to the group of mommies, they were clearly all first-time mothers. Their chatter went something like, "They're no longer babies; they've entered their toddler phases. It's so exhausting." I had to stifle many chuckles at that point and resist the urge to interrupt with, "Welcome to motherhood, sisters, where every level gets more exhausting than the last and you never get to sleep for the rest of your lives."

I had walked into the mall very grumpily this morning after a poor night's sleep, complaining heavily to my own mother: "I haven't shopped in a mall for months now. Suddenly, malls only mean playzones and a child who keeps screaming for me. I didn't sign up for this for the rest of my life. When will this end?" And lo and behold, I immediately bumped into toddler moms talking about exhaustion. Cue so many more giggles.

Sigh. Children—those necessary evils we voluntarily signed up to care for, for the rest of our lives (or hopefully less, I'll let you know).

Vietnamese Cheesecake Insomnia

A gigantic Vietnamese cheesecake has been had,

While in the moment I felt glad,

The insomnia that has kicked in is mad.

Gigantic desserts, bigger than your face,

That can't keep up with your metabolic pace,

Must be avoided at best,

So that you can rest.

The caramel ice cream that accompanied it,

Was also a hit.

I'm still dreaming of those creamy textures,

The perfect symphony of biscuit, cream cheese, and butter mixtures.

A gigantic Vietnamese cheesecake has been had,

While in the moment I felt glad,

The insomnia that has kicked in is mad.

The Trauma Brain: Powered by an Automatic, Unstoppable Engine

Trauma brains and overwork—my absolute favourite topic to write about because I've lived through it. Sometimes, I continue to live through it, thanks to immediate work or life issues, or lingering grief from my late husband. The point is, whatever the trauma, I wake up the next morning with a smile so bright that even a high-voltage Surya bulb would be terrified of me.

Ex-colleagues from my previous organisation were bowled over to learn that I had lost my husband just four months prior to joining the company. It was during that period I realised I have Deadpool inside me, and I was doing a far better job than Ryan Reynolds in real life—no disrespect to Mr. Reynolds, of course! My personality suddenly got amplified from funny to funnier, and loud to louder, and I had absolutely no control over it. I remember calling myself "the wild widow"—in my own head, of course. If I had said it out loud at that moment, I might have been taken straight to an asylum.

The point is, my trauma brain erases pain so quickly that I could put ISRO and NASA's space rockets to shame. Even before those wonderful machines can reach their destinations, a smile wider than a lunar crater is already plastered across my face. This ability came to me naturally five years ago, and now there is no going back. I call it the "trauma brain"—an automatic switch that flips on and off, an engine that is always running and ignites all on its own.

How wonderful is the human brain, honestly? The way it helps us adapt to any and every life situation is simply amazing.

The Rambo Circus of Working Parenthood

Aah, Friday—the smell of freedom after a murderous five-day week of office and school. It is murder every single day with a variety of files and strange (and not-so-strange) homework to close before the end of every working day. Sometimes, work and school are both in crisis, with notebooks running out of pages or five different photographs of transportation needing to be taken to school before the new week starts.

The list of tasks is never-ending. As I always say, someone is always crying somewhere, and mummy always has to come to the rescue—both mommies: the mommy at work and the mommy representing the school. The work has to be finished quickly with a "there, there" maternal tap on the back to encourage good behaviour from all stakeholders involved. Children, the whole lot of them—the one at home and otherwise!

It's a lot to absorb and conquer before 9 PM every night. But what is life without juggling and overwork? I didn't sign up to be a little potato waiting to be boiled in a pressure cooker, ready to be mashed inside the bhaji and presented on a plate with pav. No, I'm happy to be the maker of the bhaji who presents the plate of pav bhaji to a customer. I've always loved to be in charge—however chaotic.

On that note, welcome to the crazy life of every single working parent in the world. We are jugglers of work and life. At this point, someone needs to pay us to be the circus clowns at Rambo Circus because we throw so many multicoloured balls into the air and catch every single one of them without dropping. At least the clowns get clapped for and applauded by a wonderful audience, while we undergo quiet labour without so much as a whistle, let alone clapping. Sigh! 

Anyway, thank God it's Friday, and I'm grateful to close yet another murderous week of school and work drama.

Why a Culture of Professionalism Matters

Self-respect and choosing not to be a doormat are entirely within your hands. When an individual, an organization, or both treat you poorly and fail to value your story or the difficulties you face just to function for their sake, that is when you quietly move on. It is very simple. 

Of course, everyone wants financial freedom and independence, but it certainly must not come at the cost of your peace of mind. Being a victim of the system is absolutely not my style. It is a pity that organizations and people simply assume we will stay indefinitely, listening to their nonsensical outbursts without reacting.

What is even more pitiful is a complete lack of professionalism. Keep your personal problems at home and do not vent them onto your team. It takes less than a second for someone to realize you are having a bad day. I have worked through the anniversary of my husband's death every single year for the past five years without blinking an eye. You can call that either toxic positivity or the ability to separate emotions from work. 

Work requires you to be a professional, not an agitated individual projecting life problems—no one cares, and honestly, no one should except you. It shocks and surprises me to witness emotional outbursts every now and then, which only push me to exit quietly. 

As I mentioned before, an organization or an individual that does not value you as a human being will definitely not value your deliverables.

Big Tears, Broken Jets, and Cooum-Scented Breath

Yesterday was both a mini and a gigantic bummer of a day for Riaan and me. His favourite Tamil and Hindi tuition teacher had to discontinue his classes, my fitness trainer is probably about to quit on me, and Riaan’s brand-new toy jet—which he only started flying a week ago—abruptly stopped working. All sorts of heartache set in by nightfall, accompanied by big, fat tears.

"Why is my life so broken, Mumma, just like my jet?" my seven-year-old asked, his cheeks stained with tears.

I sighed and replied, "Sometimes toys and people abruptly exit our lives when we least expect it. That’s life. We just have to accept it and move on."

He continued his tragic monologue anyway: "First my father died, then my jet died, and now my teacher is gone." If drama had a middle name, it would be Riaan Drama Bhattacharya. I just hugged him tightly and let him sob it out for about half an hour. Big, fat tears flooded my shoulder, accompanied by occasional wafts of smelly cheese breath directly in my face.

I patiently waited for twenty minutes before finally telling him, "I'm sorry to break it to you, and perhaps this is terrible timing, but your breath smells like the Cooum River. The stench is so bad that even a crocodile wouldn't enter your mouth if I stuffed a giant dead duck inside."

He cracked up in the middle of all that crying—hysterical laughter cutting through the tears. "But I don't want to brush my teeth tonight!" he protested.

I sighed again, enduring another five minutes of his "That jet meant something to me, Mumma!" wailing. My little boy and his life's big problems. Welcome to yet another day in our life.

The Anchor of My Soul: How Motherhood Rewrote My Story

I had yet another meaningful conversation with my personal trainer of close to a year, and today's topic was babies and marriage. She is getting married in January and once again strongly urged me to settle down. I nodded, smiled, and heard her out on how I must go about finding the right man. As always, I didn't disagree with anything she said and remained neutral. I listened to her post-marriage plans and everything she wants to achieve personally and professionally.

Somewhere in the middle of that therapeutic chat, I admitted that I have healed a fair amount, all thanks to my child's antics. While it is wonderful to have a loving partner, having a child is what truly increased my sense of drive. Suddenly, I threw myself with immense passion into everything I was doing—professionally, personally, artistically, through extra-curricular activities, and exercising. It felt as though I was on steroids, and at the center of it all was my son. I suddenly discovered a newfound zest for life and everything that goes with it.

This morning, for example, I woke up with very bad vertigo and felt my head spinning each time I put my foot outside the bed. Watching my clumsy movements, my child immediately mimicked the way I was walking (which was hilarious, obviously) and said, "Please don't die on me and make me an orphan." It brought a bittersweet laughter, quite frankly. As he said that, I realized this is why I am alive and why I throw myself into everything with such aggression. I didn't know this perfectionist side of me ever existed, and it has truly come to the fore ever since the birth of my child.

I live for him, and in him, I have found my healing—a very unfair responsibility to lay upon an almost three-year-old, but it is what it is. My son will always be my "sonshine," in this lifetime and hopefully the next. I am simply elated that he chose me to be his mother in this world.

Becoming a Fan, Decades Late: My Confession to Michael Jackson

I saw the brilliant masterpiece that was Michael yesterday and was simply blown away by his talent and his kind-hearted soul. For some reason, I was never a fan growing up because I didn’t bother listening to his music. But upon closely watching the movie yesterday, I realized I have, in fact, heard all his hit songs and liked them. 

For some reason, I was simply more fascinated by rock and metal music as a teenager. Still, I absolutely loved his sense of dressing—the shiny gloves, the iconic red jacket, and the button-detailed blue informal blazer—all clothes that I would love to wear right now. He also had long hair and almost always wore kohl on his eyes, so how I was not a fan during my formative years will remain a mystery to me.

Nevertheless, better late than never. I have been listening to MJ's greatest hits all morning, from the shower up to my workstation at home. What a brilliant voice! He wrote his own music and lyrics—something that the pop boy bands I grew up listening to didn't have the ability or talent to do. 

My heart went out to the little boy who constantly got whipped by his father's belt for refusing a rehearsal after a tiring night of performing. I also respected him deeply when he told his manager very emphatically that all the compensation he received for the onset accident—where his hair caught fire—must go to the burn victims of the same hospital where he was admitted. 

My heart once again went out to the lonely little boy who had zero friends and strange animals, starting with a llama, a giraffe, and a chimp, as companions. His entire childhood was stolen from him because he attained stardom and superstardom so early in life. 

Rest in peace, wherever you are, Michael. The world has definitely not forgotten you, I can assure you of that. Tales of your talent will live on for generations.

Image sourced from https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Michael_Jackson_in_1983.jpg

The "Gayu Going Nuts" Show: Act 2026

I’ve clearly needed therapy for a while now—specifically since five years ago, because when my husband passed away in late 2021, some sane parts of my brain obviously passed away along with him. I call this final quarter of the year, from September to December, the "Gayu Going Nuts" period. It’s tattoos and hair colours galore for me because October is Durga Puja—a festival he dearly loved—November is his birthday month, and December is his death anniversary.

I’m a mixture of Harley Quinn and the Joker now, leaning heavily toward the Joker at this time of the year. I’m full of jokes and beans while dying a slow death on the inside. I read somewhere that it’s the saddest people who crack jokes all the time. Sounds like a familiar person who lives inside my head. I’m not diabolically sad like Grumpy from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs—no. I’m more like Deadpool sad. I’m the "so funny, look at me and laugh at my jokes so you don’t think about my shitty love life" kind of sad. Big difference!

Yesterday, my mother called his death "unfortunate." I vehemently opposed her, reminding her that luck and fortune had nothing to do with him dying. He wrote his own time and day of death by choosing a laptop over human beings—that is on him for the rest of his afterlife. Let’s not burden ourselves with the stupid decisions taken by power-hungry people. When people talk about choosing their careers over human life and feelings today, I lose respect for them in less than a blink of an eye.

Circling back to the point of this piece: it’s the "Gayu Going Nuts" period. Everyone, get your popcorn out. I’m ready to put up another show for you this year. Watch and learn!

*mic drop*

The Sweet, Slow Flu

I've had to cancel my entire weekend;

What a way for the week to end!

I've eaten so much sweet pongal,

That I closely resemble a pongal.

A wretched flu,

Contracted from my co-worker, has left me feeling blue.

Two days of lying flat in bed,

It has really gotten to my head.

No gorgeous workout,

Or reasons for having to step out.

Yet, the inactivity is surprisingly peaceful,

After rescheduling my weekend from full to zero.

I've had to cancel my entire weekend;

What a way for the week to end.

Till All Are One: A Tribute to Optimus Prime and Peter Cullen

I grew up watching those gentle giants called the Transformers, and I have always been amazed by these Autonomous Robotic Organisms (often shortened to Cybertronians). I have always wondered why this marvelous species of living, sentient robots took a shining to such a selfish race on Earth. Humans often do not seem to feel as deeply as they do with their gorgeous "Spark"—the Cybertronian equivalent of a human heart or soul. 

The Autobots are always ready to fight all our battles against the Decepticons (Megatron and his second-in-command Starscream) just to save the human race. Meanwhile, we are the types of beings who cannot even open up emotionally on dating apps, instead making an infinite number of excuses to avoid human connection. It is absolutely pathetic. Of course, one could argue we don't deserve saving when we cannot even save ourselves to begin with.

I have loved every single Autobot: Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Ironhide, Ratchet, Jazz, and Grimlock. It is my dream to own a Peterbilt 379 or a Chevrolet Camaro one day. I am fully set on importing one from international shores in the future so I can take it out to E.C.R. on late-night drives.

When I stumbled upon the news of Peter Cullen’s passing yesterday, I sighed deeply, realizing it marks the end of yet another beautiful era from my childhood. It is something the next generation, including my son, will never fully understand. What a pity it is that he is growing up in a day and age where people think robots do not have feelings, because I knew some of the best. I am an Autobot in spirit, and I am always ready to roll out. Optimus taught us that freedom is the right of all sentient beings. One shall stand, and one shall fall.

I will always look to the stars for you, Optimus. Rest in peace, Peter.

The Bouncy Castle of Motherhood

My maternal instincts kicked in the minute my nephew was born 15 years ago. He was the cutest little baby, with a head full of curls and a finger always stuck in his mouth. He was the apple of my eye. I didn't know that a love like this could exist inside me. I bathed him, rocked him to sleep, and spent all my time with him whenever he visited Chennai. 

I knew immediately that I wanted to make a baby just like him—and lo and behold, I did. However, mine is a more devilish, naughtier version of him who drives me up the wall! Still, I think I was always meant to be a boy mom, or just a mom to begin with, because I love little girls too. 

My ovaries cry each time I take my son to the pediatrician and we watch a newborn baby boy or girl stumbling in front of us. My son immediately goes, "Aww! Can you grow another baby, Mama?" I sigh and reply, "Sure. We don't have a father anymore though, remember?" And we sit in that hospital waiting area hugging each other, yearning for another pair of little feet to join our family—a dream that will probably remain just a dream in this lifetime. 

Coming back to the point of this piece, perhaps I was always destined to be a boy mom and have a tiny human use me as his bouncy castle, fart on my face, and occasionally hug me super tight from the waist down saying, "Mama! You're home!" Tiny humans are those necessary evils in our lives that keep us sane and in check at all times. I am grateful for mine every single day. No complaints—except maybe five a day, six if he's particularly tantrum-prone after a hard day at school.

The Myth of the Corporate Godfather and Why Work Dating is a Hard No

I have never dated anyone at work—not my colleagues, not members of other teams, and definitely not any of my bosses. So when people say, "I didn’t have a godfather in the industry," I ask you: "Who actually does?" Every corporate employee is a one-person army, figuring things out over the course of their career. 

I come from a defense background, raised in a family of Army, Merchant Navy, and Air Force professionals. None of them understand what I do; they scratch their heads whenever I talk about Corporate Communications, Public Relations, or Content Marketing. The same goes for software engineers, advertising professionals, and almost every other current career path. Most likely, our parents and ancestors never even dreamed of the fields their children work in today. 

When it comes to not having a "godfather," the reality is that no one does. We are all truly self-made and deserve a pat on the back every now and then. That being said, it is crucial to keep your head out of the clouds and stay firmly grounded. The higher you rise, the kinder you must become. It is that simple. Otherwise, you will just be remembered as a terrible human being rather than a Vice President or a CEO. 

Circling back to the topic of workplace dating, I have mostly worked with older, balding men and the occasional attractive woman, so I never really had the opportunity to live out those fantasies. More importantly, I am not sure anyone should indulge in romantic relationships with the very person responsible for their performance appraisals and promotion discussions. For me, that is a hard no today, and it will remain a hard no for as long as I am part of the workforce.

Wishing for Ardhanareeswarar: Mothering Through a Father's Absence

My late husband wasn't a hands-on dad. He didn't change diapers, he didn't burp the baby, and he didn't ever attempt to clean or bathe him. While I spent a hazy six months of sleeplessness nursing my newborn, his life went on as always with work and travel. So, when I meet fellow moms who tell me their husbands were—and still are—hands-on with their children, there's obviously a pang I feel in my heart. 

By the time my son, Riaan, was nearing three, my husband was gone, and they had barely any playtime together. I have only one or two random videos of his late father and him playing on the swings and see-saw in our old apartment's park. For the longest time, my child's face would fall when I took him to play gyms and he watched fathers playing with their kids. He would immediately turn around with a heartbroken look on his face and say, "Let's go, maama." 

In those moments, I always wished I could be both sexes at the same time, like Ardhanareeswarar. Whenever I mention that I'm both of his parents now, he says very vehemently, "No, you're not. My father is dead and you don't look like a boy to me." All valid arguments, of course, which is why I attempt to break my back every weekend in play zones doing bumper car rides with him—something I assume his father may have enjoyed indulging him in. 

The guilt that I married a man who died exactly when my child needed him is something that eats me alive every single day. I can never be Riaan's father, however hard I try, and I just hope he doesn't feel the vacuum too much.

The Espresso Tonic Epiphany

As I sipped on a vile, medicinal-tasting, bitter cold coffee beverage named "Espresso Tonic"—which was apparently Instagram-influencer approved—my mind raced down memory lane to when I was a broke student. Back then, I would borrow a few hundred rupees from my parents every week just to blow it at Café Coffee Day and Qwikys, the "it" places for young, cool people to hang out in the early 2000s. 

Those outings were always met with immense parental remorse and infinite lectures, ranging from "Let me just make coffee for you at home" and "Money doesn't grow on trees" to "How can you spend 300 rupees on coffee?!" 

Fast forward to this afternoon. I was sipping an expensive, subpar caffeinated beverage at a young, vibrant coffee pub with one hand, while holding my phone firmly to my ear with the other, listening to my mother complain about my seven-year-old. I cut into the conversation to break the news to her: I am still spending over 300 rupees on terrible-tasting coffee. 

The only difference now is that I have my own spending power but zero friends around, since I was just taking a mid-day office lunch break. 

She chuckled upon hearing this, and I chuckled back. Life truly comes full circle every now and then. Guess what? Mom was right. She—and now I—can indeed make better coffee at home. It is officially time to blow that money on more useless things instead, like Lego blocks and remote-controlled cars. What joy! 

I suddenly realized how many similarities my son and I share. We both never listened to our parents; we are rebels without a cause. I am really hoping he has his own Eureka moment before he hits 40 and realizes that "mom indeed knows best." 

Ah, the beautiful circle of life and parenthood—it simply amazes me.

Shadows at 2 AM

Strange how the torrential rain of pain,

Envelops and reigns

Over my trauma brains. 

At 2 AM dot,

I wake up like I'm shot. 

No bullets to the chest,

Yet I cannot rest. 

The discomfort is unbearable,

My life suddenly unrepairable. 

Rest I must,

For I don't want to turn to dust. 

I must simply accept

All those who've left, and not allow myself to feel so swept. 

For promises without action

Are just that—empty and hollow. I must not have a reaction. 

Strange how the torrential rain of pain,

Envelops and reigns

Over my trauma brains.

The Longest Five Minutes

The most excruciating minutes,

Those last five at work, are what crush your spirit.

Firstly, I don't understand the 9-6 grind;

It's something that will always boggle my mind.

The last time I did this jive,

I was still a little bee coming out of the hive.

Perhaps I'm not a queen yet,

Still, all this A/C-induced sweat

Makes me fret.

I realize I'm not built for the 9-6 grind;

I seek timings that are more kind.

The most excruciating minutes,

Those last five at work, are what crush your spirit.