My Life. My Blog.

One morning, just as I woke up, a very rude thought hit me.
I am no more a woman.

I am 51, and it has been three months since my periods disappeared without so much as a farewell speech. Not that I want more children, but the finality felt dramatic. The factory is officially closed. Permanently. No reopening plans.

Motherhood has been the most meaningful identity of my life. Being called Mom. Amma. That was my proudest title.

My daughter’s birth was pure joy. My son’s birth came with mild panic. Raised among girls, educated in girls’ schools, and married into a family of boys who only produced daughters, this boy caught me completely unprepared. Men had never been my comfort zone. Then one day, while feeding him, he looked into my eyes and smiled. That smile sealed it. I fell in love instantly. I believed I could raise a kind, gentle man. I believed love could change the world. Predictably, love alone did not.

As menopause settled in, existential thoughts moved in without paying rent. Dreams felt over. Sacrifices felt suspiciously unnecessary. I gave endlessly. What I forgot was that even givers need boundaries and return gifts. Idealism without invoices is dangerous.

Still, I begin again. Mothers never really retire.

I have always been a deep thinker. Accused, not admired. Because I was interested in life, politics, faith, business and the world which is all intrinsically connected. That depth gave me empathy and also a terrifying ability to see through people. I ignored my instincts, and that betrayal of self became my biggest failure. Lesson learned, painfully and permanently.

Parallel to all this, my passion for branding never faded. If anything, it sharpened. As a brand strategist, I have shaped businessmen, refined entrepreneurs, and helped many find clarity, confidence, and direction. I saw potential before they saw themselves. I built stories, structures, and identities that helped them grow.

Ironically, nothing tested my passion more than success. Many I supported when they had little, charging less because I believed in them, quietly exited once they picked up. Apparently, I had become “premium.” A strange compliment wrapped in betrayal. The cheating hurt, but it never dissolved my fire. If anything, it confirmed my worth.

Age brings clarity and a little sass. I spent years wearing the “everything is fine” mask. When I finally removed it, I was labelled difficult. A woman with boundaries is still unsettling to society.

I am a writer. Always was. I avoided writing because truth makes people uncomfortable. Now, silence makes me uncomfortable.

I care about society evolving. About kindness. About calling out fakeness, especially our blind worship of money and power. I care deeply. I just no longer care about approval.

I am a Tamizh woman by language, culture, and choice. Yes, I was born of mixed race. Life did not go according to plan. But I am still here. Still thinking. Still building.

 

And this is me, and this time, I know my value.