The Quiet Becoming

 

And just like that,

we become people

even our younger selves

would sit beside in silence,

trying to understand.

Not broken.

Not incomplete.

Just layered with unspoken things,

unfinished thoughts,

midnight overthinking,

and memories that quietly changed

the way we carry our hearts.

Some days,

we cannot explain

why certain songs hurt,

why certain people feel like home,

or why we suddenly crave distance

from the noise we once chased.

But somehow,

being this version of ourselves

comes naturally.

Like breathing through chaos.

Like smiling with tired eyes.

Like learning that healing

does not always arrive loudly.

And maybe that is adulthood—

becoming a mystery

even to ourselves,

yet waking up each day

and choosing to exist gently anyway.

— Nandini

An Ode Between Two Heartbeats

 

I once held my mother’s hand

without knowing the weight it carried—

the sleepless nights stitched into soft lullabies,

the silent worries hidden behind warm smiles,

the way she gave pieces of herself

so my world could feel whole.

Back then, love felt effortless to receive,

like sunlight entering a window every morning.

And now, standing where she once stood,

I finally understand the language of mothers—

how love becomes instinct before words,

how tired eyes still search for tiny smiles,

how even after growing up,

a quiet question lingers within me:

Am I doing enough? Am I giving my best?

Yet every hug, every sacrifice, every whispered prayer

answers softly, yes… you are trying with all your heart.

So today is for every mother

who loves beyond exhaustion and beyond herself,

for the women learning strength while nurturing softness,

for those still figuring it out while giving endlessly anyway.

From daughters who became mothers,

from children who now understand their mothers better

Nandini Mithun ✍️ 

here’s to the unconditional love that keeps generations glowing.

Wishing every beautiful mother

a heartfelt and wonderful Mother’s Day.

The Weight of Kind Words

Sometimes, out of nowhere,

like sunlight slipping through clouds,

people hand me words so warm—

soft praises, gentle admiration,

little pieces of kindness I didn’t ask for.

And yes, they make me smile.

They sit on my lips like a quiet thank you,

they bloom in my chest for a moment—

a fleeting kind of happiness.

But then comes the whisper

a question curling in the corners of my mind:

Is this really me?

Am I truly the person they see?

I replay their words in silence,

turning them over like fragile glass,

afraid they might shatter

under the weight of my doubt.

Because sometimes,

I know my storms too well,

my overthinking, my flaws,

the parts of me that don’t feel worthy

of such beautiful descriptions.

And yet

maybe those words aren’t misplaced.

Maybe they are mirrors

I am too hesitant to look into.

Maybe I am

a little more kind than I believe,

a little more strong than I admit,

a little more deserving

than I allow myself to feel.

So I hold their compliments gently now,

not fully convinced, not fully denying—

just learning, slowly,

to accept that maybe…

just maybe,

they see something real in me.