This Is New. So Are You.

It was one of those rare Saturday mornings when the whole house seemed to exhale with me—a holy hush wrapped around everything. No footsteps. No calls. Just stillness. Golden sunlight spilled through the balcony window like liquid grace, warming the silence. The kids were deep in sleep. The dog was at daycare. The nanny had the day off. And for the first time in what felt like forever—no one needed me. I was alone, not in emptiness, but in a kind of sacred space carved out for me to simply be.

Fresh from yoga, my body open, my mind still, I made myself breakfast. Nothing fancy—just eggs and spinach—but I plated it with care, as if I mattered. As if I was worth the effort. I perched on the kitchen island, feet dangling, coffee steaming beside me, and let the silence stretch long. For the first time in weeks, I breathed—not the shallow, survival kind—but a deep, soul-filling exhale that reached the places I’d been clenching too tight for too long.

And then came the familiar inner critic:

You should be spending more time with the kids.

You should focus more on their academics.

Be more patient. Be more fun. Be more everything.

That spiral of self-judgment was sharp, unforgiving. But as I sat in the quiet, refusing to go down the same rabbit hole, something shifted.

I thought about this past year. The sleepless nights. The tears no one saw. The way I stood tall for my children even when I was breaking inside. That quiet, relentless courage. That’s my power.

Then I reminded myself of how far I have come and what I am achieving.  I am a solo mother of four. I carry a career that demands every ounce of me. I stretch every dollar to give my kids what I could not have as a kid. And beneath all that—the quiet ache of dreams I have had to put on hold as their needs come first. But make no mistake: those dreams still live. And so do I.

Then I started questioning myself with the tired old questions—

Why aren’t you handling this better?

Shouldn’t you have it figured out by now?

I searched deep to find something that would allow me to have more self-compassion. I remembered something my darling daughter once said to me—her voice soft but steady, her eyes wide with innocence and wisdom far beyond her years. I had been hard on her that day, caught in my own whirlwind of expectations, when she looked at me and said:

“Mama… this is my first time living. Please… have some grace.”

As I realized the truth and weight this statement carried, I smiled at the gift my children had given me again.

Of course I don’t know how to do this.

I’ve never been here before.

This is all new. And so am I.

I placed my hand over my heart and inhaled—slowly, deeply—allowing breath to reach the places I’ve kept clenched for too long. And there, in the stillness, I chose grace over shame.

This is not failure.

This is becoming.

Five years ago, I couldn’t yet recognize the quiet wisdom my children were offering me. But today, I stand grounded—not because the path has been easy, but because I’ve become a woman who sees with deeper clarity, who has outgrown the limits of who she once was, and who now embraces growth in every form, from every soul around her.

I have never lived this life before. Not this version. Not these heartbreaks that cracked me open. Not these mountains I never chose but climbed anyway. Not this relentless, sacred work of piecing together a heart that’s been shattered and remade more times than I dare admit.

There’s no map for this. No handbook for surviving the aftermath of divorce. No script for the push-and-pull of co-parenting. No checklist for how to carry a career that consumes you while clawing your way back to the woman you were—before the world asked you to be everything, for everyone, all at once.

I didn’t grow up with a roadmap for this. No one around me modelled how to navigate this kind of path. This is uncharted territory. And still—here I am. Trying. Falling. Rising. Learning. Showing up when it’s hard. Stitching this life back together—day by day, breath by breath, decision by decision. Doing the best I can with what I’ve got, and refusing to stop reaching for better.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s not just enough. Maybe it’s extraordinary.

This morning didn’t hand me answers. But it gave me something even more powerful:

Peace. And Permission.

Permission to stop punishing myself for all the unfinished things on my never-ending to-do list.Permission to meet myself with compassion instead of criticism.Permission to keep going—not perfectly, but bravely.

So pause here with me. Place your hand over your heart. Breathe deep. Let this truth settle into your bones:

You have never lived this life before.

This is your first time carrying this fierce, tender, resilient heart. Your first time holding joy and grief in the same trembling hands.

And yet—look at you.

Still standing.

Still rising.

Still choosing love over bitterness. Still choosing growth, even when fear whispers louder.

So why do we speak to ourselves with such cruelty?

Why do we demand perfection from a path we've never walked before?

Here’s the truth we forget—and the one we must anchor in our bones:

This is uncharted territory. And you are still finding your way with courage, grace, and grit.

No one has ever stood where you stand—carrying your story, your scars, your strength, and every unseen sacrifice that shaped you.

You are forging a path no one else could walk. And for that alone, you deserve relentless grace.

So take back the wheel.

This is your one wild, sacred, unrepeatable life.

Don’t let fear sit beside you. Don’t hand it the map.

At any moment, you can choose again. Shift course. Start over. Begin anew.

It only takes one brave breath. One bold step.

And when you take it, hold tight to this truth:

You are not behind.

You are not broken.

You are not failing.

You are becoming.

Becoming softer in your tenderness, stronger in your truth.

Wiser with every fall. Braver with every rise.

Becoming the woman who will never again abandon herself—no matter who else tries to.

You’ve never been here before.

But still, here you are.

Standing. Rising. Becoming.

You are living proof that grace isn’t earned—it’s claimed.

That healing isn’t linear—it’s holy.

That power doesn’t roar—it rises quietly, steadily, from within.

This is your power.

This is your proof.

This is your permission slip to keep going.

You are enough.

You always have been.

You always will be.

This Is New. So Are You.

“Pause, be kind to yourself and have grace—for today, tomorrow, and always.”– Faiza Chaudhary