Some begin with survival.
Twelve years ago, I was not the glowing, smiling pregnant woman people love to talk about. I was tired. Scared. Restless. Carrying not just two babies, but also two worlds of fear and hope inside me.
Everyone said, “Twins! How lucky! How sweet!”
Sweet.
I smiled when they said it. But they didn’t see the nights.
Nights when I couldn’t lie down. Nights when sleep abandoned me. Nights when I sat on a chair, because my body refused to rest on a bed that once gave me comfort. For one and a half months, my chair became my world. My body ached. My mind wandered. My heart longed.
I missed my Amma. My Appa. My brother.
I, who was always running somewhere, doing something, suddenly became still. Six months inside a room. Six months inside my thoughts.
Pregnancy was not magical for me. It was endurance.
And then, after all that waiting, they arrived.
Two tiny cries. Two tiny fingers. Two tiny souls.
My Chakku and Panchu.
My pearls. My miracles. My everything.
The first year passed like a blur. I did not think. I did not pause. I simply flowed. Like a stream born suddenly after a storm—without direction, without clarity, just moving forward because it had to.
And just when life began to settle, it changed again.
Chakku was diagnosed with ASD.
Life became hospital corridors. Therapy rooms. Waiting areas filled with silent prayers. Questions with no answers. Smiles hiding fear.
But in the middle of all that was my Chakku.
My happy boy.
My loving boy.
My boy who understood hearts more than words.
And Panchu—my fierce little girl—refused to leave him behind.
She pulled his hand into her games. She spoke to him even when he didn’t respond. She insisted he belong in her world.
Sometimes she complained. Sometimes she didn’t understand. How could she? She was just a child too.
But love doesn’t need understanding. It only needs presence.
There were difficult days. Schools that promised inclusion but didn’t fully understand him. Days when fear stopped my heart. Days when I questioned everything.
I became a workaholic, not for success, but for survival. Work became my escape. My distraction. My way of staying strong when I felt weak inside.
Slowly, I stopped asking, “Why my child?”
Instead, I started saying, “My child.”
I scolded him when he was naughty. I celebrated every small word he spoke, even if he didn’t know its meaning. Every tiny step felt like a giant victory. He became my strength without even knowing it.
Today, he still wipes my tears before I wipe my own.
He still stands between me and Panchu when I scold her, protecting her like a tiny warrior.
Sometimes, he even brings the stick himself, asking to be punished.
Tell me, how can someone be this pure?
And Panchu—my strong girl. My mature little soul. She now says she wants to become a doctor for children like her brother.
(Though, between us, she is still negotiating her relationship with textbooks. Some dreams take their time. 😊)
Today, they turn twelve.
One who counts days for birthdays months in advance.
And one who doesn’t fully understand birthdays, but happily cuts cake at every celebration.
They came together.
They grew together.
They taught me how to live again.
Motherhood did not make me perfect.
It made me stronger. Softer. Braver.
It broke me.
And rebuilt me.
Happy 12th birthday, my Chakku and Panchu.
You are not just my children.
You are my courage.
You are my healing.
You are my happiness.
Always.
— Mamma ❤️
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