2022 felt like

2022 felt like a breath after holding it for too long.

After two years of corona, of pauses, uncertainty, cancelled plans and quiet resilience, this year arrived with a different energy. Not perfect. Not magically fixed. But lighter. Hopeful. Alive again.

It was the year we slowly returned to ourselves.

Life started opening up. Rooms filled again. Laughter sounded louder. Plans felt possible instead of conditional. There was a collective softness in the way people showed up, like we all understood something we hadn’t before. That time is fragile. That connection matters.

2022 carried positive vibes in the simplest ways. Saying yes again. Travelling without fear. Celebrating milestones that had been delayed. Being together without screens in between. It has reminded us how good normal moments can feel when you’ve gone without them.

It was also a year of appreciation. For health. For freedom. For the ability to move through the world without constant caution. Things that once felt automatic suddenly felt like privileges.

2022 wasn’t about pretending the last two years didn’t happen. It was about carrying the lessons forward without the weight. Choosing joy intentionally. Letting life feel full again. A quiet reminder that even after long periods of stillness, growth returns. Energy returns. And so does hope.

2022 felt like the world exhaling.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.

the role of a south Asian woman

The role of a South Asian woman has never been simple. It is layered with expectation, sacrifice, pride, resilience, and contradiction. It is shaped by culture, family, migration, religion, and survival. And it is often defined long before she has the chance to define herself.

I am deeply aware of my privilege.

I am privileged to have an immediate family that does not expect me to follow a rigid script. I am not pressured into marriage. I am not measured solely by my obedience, my adaptability, or my ability to serve others before myself. I am supported in questioning, choosing, and waiting.

And yet, I recognise that from the outside looking in, this freedom can be misunderstood.

To some, it looks like entitlement.
To others, rebellion.
To some, being “spoilt.”

I recognise that perception, even when it’s uncomfortable.

Traditionally, the South Asian woman has been raised with a clear understanding of her role: to be accommodating, family-oriented, respectful, and resilient. Her value has often been tied to how well she holds relationships together, how quietly she sacrifices, and how seamlessly she fits into systems that were never designed around her needs.

Marriage, in particular, has been positioned as both destination and duty. A marker of success not just for the woman, but for her family. Through marriage, she becomes proof of good upbringing, good values, and social stability. Deviating from this path can feel like rejecting not just tradition, but collective effort.

So when a South Asian woman is given room to pause, to question, or to choose differently, it can feel threatening to those who did not have that choice themselves.

I understand why.

For many women before me, adherence was survival. Tradition was not optional. Roles were not flexible. Doing what was expected was the safest way to move through the world with dignity intact. Their sacrifices built the foundations that now allow some of us to choose more freely.

That history deserves respect.

But respect does not require repetition.

The role of a South Asian woman today exists in tension between gratitude and growth. Between honouring what was endured and refusing to inherit what no longer serves. It is possible to recognise privilege without apologising for it. To acknowledge softness without dismissing strength.

I know I am fortunate. And I also know that privilege does not erase responsibility. It asks for awareness.

Awareness that not all women are afforded the same safety to say no.
Awareness that freedom can look like disrespect to those who were never allowed it.
Awareness that choosing differently does not mean choosing wrongly.

From the outside, it may look like I am not adhering.
From the inside, it feels like I am being honest.

The role of a South Asian woman is evolving, not disappearing. It is expanding to include autonomy alongside duty, ambition alongside family, and individuality alongside community. It no longer has to be defined by how much she gives up to be considered good.

I carry my culture with me. I honour it in the way I love, the way I show up, and the way I stay connected. But I also believe that culture is not static. It grows with the women brave enough to live it differently.

I am privileged. I recognise that fully.
But privilege does not mean I owe my life to expectation.

It means I have the opportunity to choose with intention, and to do so with respect for those who came before me, and compassion for those who will come after.

10 years

 10 years.

It’s been a decade now, living with a brain disease.
And I find myself looking back on what I wrote five years ago, trying to remember who I was then.
Scared. Proud. Tired. Hopeful. All at once.
Honestly? Not much has changed, and yet everything has.

When I hit the five-year mark, I wrote about showing up. About the quiet resilience that lives in everyday choices. About the fear I still carried, and the pride I was just beginning to let myself feel.
I still stand by every word of that post.

But now, five years on from that, I’ve learned even more. I’ve learned that pride doesn’t have to feel loud or defiant, sometimes it’s just looking at who you’ve become and thinking, you did okay.
I’ve learned that fear might never fully leave, but it softens over time. You make room for it, but you don’t let it take over the whole house.

And I’ve learned that while your body may feel like a battleground some days, your life can still be full. Still joyful. Still deeply, beautifully yours.

The thing about living with something chronic is that it changes you, not all at once, but slowly, over time. And not just in the obvious ways. It teaches you patience, sharpens your empathy, forces you to let go of perfection. You get better at listening to yourself. You learn which battles are worth fighting and which days are for resting.

Have there been setbacks? Of course. But also so so many wins. Big and small. So much life packed into these 10 years. Work I’m proud of. Relationships that hold me steady. A deeper understanding of who I am, and what I need.

At year five, I wasn’t sure what the next five would hold. And I still don’t know what the next five after this will bring. But I’ve made peace with that. Because ten years in, I’ve realised this journey is less about control and more about trust. Trusting myself. Trusting that even if the road twists, I’ll find a way through.

So here’s to ten years.
To the version of me who wrote that five-year post, thank you. You helped me get here.
To anyone out there who’s in year one, or year three, or year twenty. Keep going.
You’re doing more than you know. 💙

life is a climb but the view is great

This year marks ten years since I was diagnosed with a brain disease. To mark it, I climbed Mount Snowdon with my best friends.

The last decade has been full of uncertainty, appointments, and learning how to live alongside something I never planned for. Climbing the mountain was not about proving strength. It was about marking time. About celebrating being here. About doing something meaningful with people who understand your pace and walk it with you.

As Miley Cyrus once said, “Life is a climb, but the view is great.” That felt especially true standing at the top, exhausted, emotional, and grateful.

I am so proud of my girls. Especially one of them who discovered she has a fear of heights halfway through the climb and still kept going. That alone deserves a medal.

Together, we also raised over £3,000 for Great Ormond Street Hospital , which makes the whole experience even more special.

Ten years ago, I had no idea what life would look like now.
Today, I know this much. I am still here, still capable, and deeply grateful.