Today is my father’s birthday.
In my house, the day passed in a strange, heavy silence. I didn't remind anyone. My mother and I spoke, but we didn't mention his name. My youngest brother likely carried the memory in his own quiet way. Sometimes, grief isn't a loud cry; it’s the quiet space between words when you’re talking about the weather or the daily chores.
I’ve spent the day navigating the "Mixed Bag" of my current life—dealing with technical glitches, cold-calls, and even the sting of being called a "fraud" by a stranger who didn't know the heart behind my screen. For a moment, the weight of the day made me feel small. I found myself looking backward, missing old comforts and familiar voices.
But then, I remembered whose daughter I am.
I realized that my father is present in every "Sovereign" choice I make. He is there in the discipline I showed today despite my cold. He is there in the way I looked at the girl with the pen and the notebook yesterday—recognizing her hunger for knowledge because it’s the same hunger he likely instilled in me.
We don't always need to light candles or make grand speeches to honor those we’ve lost. Sometimes, the best tribute is simply not giving up.
When I manage my portfolio, I am using the wisdom of the foundations he laid. When I teach a child to be brave with their words, I am passing on the courage he gave me. When I look at my son, I see a legacy that stretches back long before I was a mother.
Today was a "zero" in the world of corporate targets. But in the arithmetic of the soul, it was a day of deep connection. I realized that I don't need a stranger's validation or a perfect internet connection to be "enough." I am my father’s daughter, and that is a title no one can take away.
Happy Birthday, Baba. The silence today wasn't because we forgot. It was because you are so much a part of our daily rhythm that we don't need to say your name to feel you there.
Our roots give us the strength to survive the storms of the present
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