I always thought grief required a death, a separation, some clear rupture. So when I sat down to write about grief today, I hesitated. What right did I have? But grief, can also be the ache of finally seeing clearly; Of recognizing yourself in the women you once failed to understand.
Despite the perfect December weather, the season I’ve always loved for its gatherings and warmth, I spent today alone. No plans, no invitations. The world, my world, has moved on without me. And the truth I can’t escape: I am the architect of my own isolation.
When my husband asked what was wrong, I tried to explain the loneliness. He bristled. How could I feel lonely with a loving husband and a child who adores me? How could I grieve the absence of friends when I have a family?
The question hung between us for only a moment before he returned to planning a trip with his friends.
And then the inventory began. The trip to Goa I refused because “the family can’t manage without you.” The dandia night I’d planned for weeks, canceled when my husband’s aunt extended her stay. The Literary Festival I missed because his friends came for lunch. Each decision, reasonable at the time. Each one, a small erasure.
This took me back to my mother.
My childhood days had a rhythm: wake up, study, school, lunch, dance class, dinner, sleep. Perfect orchestration. But who was the orchestrator? My mother. And what was her rhythm? Wake up. Manage the home. Sleep. Repeat.
I have never known my mother to have a friend. Once, maybe twice, she tried befriending a neighbour. We hated it. We needed her attention always available, always ours. The friendship ended. We didn’t notice or care.
And when she tried to express her disappointment- the loneliness, the monotony- we heard it as accusation. We fought back: “Why don’t you find something useful to do?” As if her entire life of service to us wasn’t useful enough.
Eventually, she stopped trying. She submitted to it, merged herself so completely into the family that she disappeared. Now, when you ask her about herself, she only talks about housework. The shopping to be done, the meals to be planned, the chores waiting. As if that’s her only identity. As if she has no self left to speak of.
It is.
Years later, in my first job, alone in a new city, I made friends easily. After work, we’d go to movies, restaurants, and pubs. There was one woman I liked: sharp, funny at the office, but she never joined us. Not once. I invited her repeatedly. I persuaded, cajoled. Eventually, I gave up. We all did. We stopped asking.
I never thought much about it then. I do now.
She lived in a joint family. Her in-laws wouldn’t let her husband help in the kitchen. Her day: wake up at 5 AM, cook breakfast and lunch for everyone, get her child ready, send her to school, come to work, rush home, cook dinner. By 11 PM, she’d collapse into bed. Only to wake at 5 AM again.
When she talked, on those rare slow days at the office, she spoke about her childhood friends, her college days, the women she’d left behind when she got married.
Just like my mother used to.
And now it’s my turn.
I was never someone with many friends; I was too shy, too sensitive. But the friends I made were the best kind: patient with my moods, constant in their kindness. I didn’t collect friends; I collected best friends.
Now I have none. Not because we fought or moved, but because I became the woman who could never make time. I see them sometimes, rushed lunches between meetings, ten-minute coffees on busy workdays. When did we last laugh together? When did I last relax in their presence? I can’t remember.
They’ve moved on. Just like I once moved on from that colleague who couldn’t meet for drinks.
Last week, at a goal-setting session, I met women my age- married, with children- all struggling with the same hunger. They wanted to focus on themselves, make new friends, and go out more. They wanted their lives back.
So I’m writing this not to drown in self-pity, but to mark what I finally understand: women have been cornered and isolated for generations. Even in this age of “having it all,” we’re encouraged to chase what comforts the family, not what frees us. We tell ourselves we’ll focus on ourselves later, when the children are older, when life is calmer. But that time doesn’t come. My mother tried to pour from an empty cup, surrounded by people who never thought to fill hers.
This is the cycle I need to break. I need to acknowledge my needs the way I acknowledge everyone else’s. I might be lonely now, but if I continue to resent myself and everyone around me, I’ll never get my life back.
So I’m writing this to remember what I learned today: I refuse to disappear.
P.S. On the making of this essay: The images and editorial guidance for this piece came from Claude, an AI assistant by Anthropic. I’m mentioning this not as a disclaimer, but as an acknowledgement. Creative collaboration takes many forms, and I believe in crediting the tools and intelligence that help us articulate what we feel. The emotions, the memories, the recognition? Those are mine.
To the women reading this: If these words found you, chances are you’ve lived some version of this story. Maybe you’re the daughter recognising her mother. Maybe you’re the colleague who can never make it to drinks. Maybe you’re somewhere in between, watching yourself fade and wondering if anyone notices.
I want you to know: I see you. And I’m hoping by writing this, you see yourself—not with judgment, but with the compassion we so rarely give ourselves.
If you have a story like this, please consider sharing it. Write it in the comments, on your own blog, in your journal, or tell it to a friend over coffee (if you can find the time, and please, try to find the time). We’ve been silent about these small erasures for too long. Every woman who names the pattern makes it easier for the next woman to recognise it in herself.
This essay is part of “Musings of an Accidental Feminist,” my series exploring the invisible architecture of women’s lives—the patterns we inherit, the choices that feel like non-choices, and the quiet rebellions that save us.
The BIOSCOPED Life 