Germany, 2004
They named me Santhyaa, which means 'sunlight', though my life has never felt so bright and welcoming. Maybe success, maybe pride. Maybe a life they dreamed of but never got to live themselves would satisfy them.
I was their only child after all- not by choice, but by a miracle. A miracle, my mother always said, spoken with quiet pride and a glimmer in her eyes. Struggling with infertility, IVF (In-Vitro-Fertilisation) isn't a simple option- it's an emotional journey. It takes more than just science; it takes courage. The kind of courage that wakes up after every disappointment and dares to hope again. They know the fear of waiting. The ache of empty scans. The injections. The heartbreak of almost. And yet, they try- not because they're weak, but because they are incredibly strong. My mother carried that strength in silence.
'You were worth every step of the way' she would say.
No one ever called her a warrior. But I know she was one. And in many ways, I was her victory. A victory, she kept under her wing at all times.
But maybe that's why she held on so tightly. I wasn't just her daughter- I was her proof. That hope works. That prayers are answered. That she had done something right in a world that made her feel wrong and judged.
It was her first time being a mother. And like most first times, it was messy, uncertain and fuelled by both love and fear. Love in our home, didn't always come softly. Yes, we had our family moments. Spending every Saturdays at the shopping centre, restocking groceries. My father would buy my mother and I ice-creams. Sitting inside the cart getting pushed around, the giggles. God, sometimes I want to go back and be that kid again.
Our household was filled with rules and raised expectations with the love shown at times. Emotions were monitored. Mistakes weren't welcomed- they were corrected. Quickly. Quietly. Harshly.
She was parenting from a place of protection. She hoped it would make me strong, unshakable. But what she didn't realise was that all I needed was to be heard. Instead, the emotional vulnerability consumed me. All I felt was the weight of needing to be perfect- all the time. Whether it be studies or discipline.
'Santhyaa, there are lots of people waiting for you to fail and enjoy your downfall so be careful with everything you do' my mother would always remind me.
When other children were praised for trying, I was reminded to 'do better'. When I achieved highest in the class, it was expected. When I fell shirt, it was a disappointment.
There was love. I never doubted that. But it came wrapped in discipline, silence and the unspoken pressure to never let them down. The eyes of society had given my father the duty to work and provide for us. I know inside I was his world. The face he wanted to see when he was back from work. However, whenever the test results comes out, the disappointment I can always feel it from the both of them sat in front of me on the couch.
My father's prescribed glasses would slide up his nose as he positions the pen to the report card.
'78 out of 100 again?' his voice said in a strict tone.
'Why are you so distracted again? You were watching TV again instead of studying right?'
'No Amma, I really did try my best' my voice would crack, unable to hold itself steady under their disappointment. I never cried in front of them, like I used to. Just swallowed the ache and let it curl up somewhere small inside me.
My father's silence was always louder than my mother's downgrading words.
A long sigh would leave his mouth as the pen touches the paper scribbling his signature.
'Best is not enough, Santhyama. You can do better. You just need to focus more.'
Focus. That word followed me like a shadow- in red pen across notebooks, on the fridge calendar, whispered at night during my sleep.
At just 3rd grade I was focused. I was always focused.
On making them proud.
On being enough.
On trying to feel like the miracle they had waited for 8 years long for.
It's strange how you can be so deeply loved and still feel like you're failing.
My school life wasn't like how you'd imagine it in movies- no big friendship group, no favourite teacher, no photo albums full of laughter and class trips.
It was a mixed school, loud and ordinary to everyone else- but not to me. I had no respect from any of the girls. I was bullied, pushed aside, constantly reminded that I didn't have the personality they wanted and I didn't belong here. But I never fought back. What would it have changed? I had learned early that silence was safer.