You Go Girl

There were moments when I wished I could rewrite my story. But trust me, life often unfolds

in ways we don’t choose, and it is what it is.

I was born in Kannur, a place I carry in my roots but never fully belonged to. From a young age, “weirdo” was the label stuck to me. No matter how much I tried, I felt out of place. My father was a cop, my mother a teacher, together, a combination that could strike fear in any child. Pressure wasn’t a choice; it was the air I breathed. My two sisters were destined for medicine and fulfilled it; they are doctors today. But me? At 32, I am still a student. I see learning not as a burden but as a superpower, my truest source of strength. If Marvel ever wrote a superhero powered by learning, I would be the one cast in that role.

But everything I tried holding together slipped away when I was 19. My life was pushed into a marriage I never wanted, bound by family and society’s expectations. I held on for 1.5 years

because that’s what I was told I should do. By the time I was 23, with a 1.5-year-old child in my arms, I had reached my breaking point. I was in the middle of my master’s degree, but my

then-husband resented my studies. I was a dreamer, a reader, and a musician at heart; I

couldn’t suffocate those callings any longer.

On October 28, 2014, I gathered courage I didn’t know I had. With my son on one hip and a

small bag of clothes in the other, I left. We traveled for 12 hours to reach Kannur. Standing on

the road with my child, hopelessness crept into me. My dreams felt wrecked, and I thought of ending everything. But when I looked into my son’s eyes, I froze. His tiny stare wouldn’t let me give up. I called my mother instead. She simply told me to come home. That midnight, I too an auto to my childhood house.

The days that followed were heavy with loneliness, whispers of pity, and endless questions

from people who knew nothing of my struggle. I grew restless. So once again, I made what felt like the only choice: to leave. I told my mom I had to go, packed my bag, and abandoned home. I wanted to vanish.

I boarded a train without knowing where it was headed. I asked the ticket checker for the last

stop and sat there, numb, hiding tears I didn’t know how to show. After 42 hours, I stepped

into Delhi, a city I had never known, speaking not a word of Hindi. All I had was desperation

and a dim pulse of hope. By chance, I remembered an ex-colleague who lived there. I dialed

his number, praying. He answered on the first ring, as though he was waiting. Without

hesitation, he said, “Stay where you are. I’ll come.” That night, we sat in silence over a cup of

coffee, the first I’d had in days. His quiet presence was enough.

With his help, I stayed in hostels, searching for work. Weeks passed. He then told me about an opening at NDTV 24x7. For days, he patiently taught me the basics of graphics and explained the rhythm of broadcasting. With a background in film technology and audio, I found my footing quickly. Still, stepping into journalism felt raw, almost electric.

I walked into the NDTV interview nervous but steady. When I came out, he was waiting on the stairs. He didn’t overwhelm me with questions; he only hugged me with quiet reassurance. A week later, on October 17, 2016, I joined NDTV as a Production Assistant. Within six months, I moved up to Audio Engineer, and then to Junior Associate Producer. I was leading recordings and discussions and living in the pulse of a newsroom. But behind all of it, I was still carrying pain, divorce papers, separation from my son, and nights of video calls where I watched him grow too fast without me.

I visited him each year on his birthday. To him, I was just a “sister” who arrived with presents,

hiding the truth that I was his mother. I didn’t let him see my depression; no child deserves

that picture of their parent. And despite the heartbreak, I knew walking away from that toxic

marriage had been the best decision of my life.

But life caught up with me in another form. After 3.5 years of relentless work and escape, my

body caved in. A liver surgery and three days in the ICU, lying there, I realized what truly

mattered. Not careers, not proving myself, not outrunning whispers. It was my son.

So in March 2020, in the middle of a pandemic lockdown, I quit my secure job at NDTV.

Without a plan, without savings, I flew back home to Kannur. By then, circumstances pushed

me into Trivandrum first and later into Alliance as a Senior Service Associate. But working

from home eventually brought me back to Kannur, the very place I had once fled. My son was there, and so was my truth. I wanted him to finally know who I was, not his sister, but his

mother.

I longed for a second chance at motherhood, for his acceptance. But reality had another path waiting. My parents, concerned once more about my "safety," pressed me into remarriage. This time, the man was in the Netherlands. I barely knew more than that before I agreed, exhausted and unable to argue. I walked into another marriage, not out of love but

compliance. That marked the second wave of depression, but now, not because of the man,

but because of the maze of bureaucracy, identity, and displacement that followed.

After the wedding, I had to leave my job at Alliance and begin again in the Netherlands. Once more, I found myself standing on a blank page. I submitted my postgraduate documents, hoping to start searching for work, only to discover that a break in my master’s degree made my credentials “unacceptable.” It felt absurd and unfair; I was left questioning everything: “What is happening to me?” That sense of spiraling uncertainty took hold, and fear clawed its way in. What could I do next?

By 2023, desperation led me back into the world of academia. As if two bachelor’s degrees

and a master’s were not already enough, I enrolled in another bachelor’s program, almost as

if I were collecting tokens, not diplomas. It was a strange feeling, but then fortune took a

kinder turn; I won a scholarship that covered most costs, lessening the burden. I hesitated,

but opportunity outweighed my doubts, and I began again.

This time, things weren’t as familiar. The research landscape had changed, the study methods were new, and on top of everything, artificial intelligence had been swept into the classroom. Navigating all this newness was disorienting. Amidst the chaos, I turned to the one enduring thread: writing. LinkedIn became my refuge, a place to rebuild not just my brand but also my sense of worth. It was words that helped me endure the shadows of my second depression; writing kept me whole.

In 2024, just as I was reaching the peak of my career, I was clinically diagnosed with

depression. Soon after came diagnoses of Autism and ADHD. Looking back, the signs had

always been there; I was living with ADHD as far back as 2016, during my first deep valley of

depression. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I would also be Autistic. Gratefully,

with my partner’s support, I regained my strength and returned with more determination

than ever.

I threw myself into writing and self-exploration, peeling back the layers of who I truly am.

Suddenly, the path ahead grew clearer. I finally understood why people called me “weirdo”

and why I had always struggled to maintain relationships. With newfound awareness, I began

to learn how to understand my own thoughts and emotions, how to give myself compassion,

and how to connect with the world on my own terms. Writing became both my compass and

my anchor, and with each word, I felt a little closer to home within myself.

Now, in 2025, I sometimes pause to look at everything gathered in my hands: a valid Dutch

passport, a master’s degree recognized by a Dutch university, final steps toward completing

another bachelor’s, and, astonishingly, an approved PhD topic waiting in the wings. My

personal brand and freelance journey are unfolding more smoothly than I’d ever imagined.

Already finished an internship from an EU funded organization. Write PR articles for them.

Worked in multiple industries and on multiple projects and overcame every stone with a

strong mind and focus. And, as the sweetest gift of all, my son is here by my side to celebrate it with me.

Through it all, one truth remains: my story is chaotic, unconventional, and stitched with pain

and resilience. If there is anything I hold onto, it is that learning, dreaming, and becoming are never wasted. At heart, I am just a girl still trying to find my space, because I know not

everyone has everything figured out. I am determined to be in the driver’s seat, not society or the people around me. And though I have been many things in life, daughter, wife, worker, stranger, before all else, I am a mother, still learning what it means to find my place.

I may have been born into a cage, but that cage doesn’t define me; it is my choice, and it is

my life.