When we made the decision to move, it carried equal parts excitement and fear. We were comfortably settled in Chennai with Freddy thriving professionally, at the peak of his career. Our daughters, aged 10 and 12, were rooted in their own worlds with school friends, apartment buddies and busy weekends of extracurriculars. I had taken a career break to be fully present during their growing-up years. It was a life we had carefully built.

Then came the decision to move to Australia and two years later in 2018, we were literally thrown into the deep end. No amount of research can prepare you for this reality. Each day brought a new challenge, a new uncertainty, a new way to feel unmoored. For Freddy, it wasn’t just about work. His career had been his identity, his pride. Walking away from recognition and achievement was personal. Starting over meant facing the unknown and accepting that the path ahead had no guarantees.

For me, the struggle went beyond adjusting to a new city. It involved confronting the loss of an identity I had carried for years, that of a full-time mother and homemaker. Rebuilding a career at 36 felt like stepping into unknown territory, exhilarating, intimidating, and full of self-doubt.

Slowly we realized rebuilding your life in a different country isn’t just professional; it’s also profoundly emotional. Each day was an effort to reconnect with who we once were while accepting who we were becoming. Slowly, new opportunities emerged for Freddy, offering meaning in unexpected ways. I rediscovered parts of myself I had set aside and began to carve a new purpose. Step by step, we started piecing our lives back together.

And then there were our daughters.

They didn’t just adjust, they transformed. From clinging to late-night calls with friends back home, they became courageous, independent young individuals. They navigated unfamiliar classrooms, learned new accents, built friendships from scratch, stumbled, adapted, and tried again. What once brought tears gradually sparked excitement. Adelaide stopped being “the new place” and quietly became home.

Looking back, the hardest part wasn’t the logistics of immigrating. Rather, it was the silent letting go, the ache of standing between who you were and who you were becoming. We left behind comfort, familiarity, and certainty. Yet what we gained was far greater: strength we didn’t know we had, a renewed sense of purpose, and children who emerged braver, bolder, and unshakably adaptable.

In the end, every doubt that gnawed at us, every step we took when we couldn’t see the ground, it was shaping us, quietly, invisibly, into who we were meant to be. Starting over wasn’t a breaking point; it burned away the parts of us that weren’t real, left only the raw, unguarded pieces that mattered. And in that rawness, in that beginning again, we found ourselves. Whole. Fragile, but unshakably, fiercely alive.

The post Left home. Found courage. Built a new life – The Immigrant Story appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

When spiritual authority drifts from its calling to care and protect, something sacred begins to fade, and leadership shifts from service to self-preservation. The change is often subtle, policies are invoked, “order” is defended, formal votes and official language take center stage, and those in power insist they are acting “for the good of the church.” Yet when maintaining structure becomes more urgent than nurturing people, it becomes clear that something essential has moved off-center.

Jesus Himself was unflinching about this. In the Gospel of Matthew 21:13, when He entered the temple and saw exploitation in a place meant for prayer, He overturned tables and declared, “My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves.”

He was not condemning seekers. He was confronting leadership. He was not attacking faith. He was defending it. His strongest words were directed at religious systems that burdened people in the name of God, hypocrisy, pride, and sacred language used in ways that obscured compassion. That distinction matters.

Perhaps even more painful than strained leadership is the quiet that can settle over a congregation. Many people sense when something feels unsettled. They notice the tension in meetings. They observe who quietly steps away. They hear explanations that do not fully rest easy in the heart. But confrontation is uncomfortable and speaking up can feel costly. And so many choose what feels safer: silence. Silence can feel neutral. But over time, it can unintentionally allow unhealthy patterns to continue. Not always out of agreement, often out of a sincere desire to “keep peace.” Yet peace built only on avoidance often protects those in power while leaving deeper issues untouched.

I attended a sermon recently that reframed this struggle in a way that lingered with me. The pastor turned to The Starry Night by Vincent van Gogh. In the painting, a small church stands beneath a vast, swirling sky. The heavens blaze with movement and light. The stars burn brightly. The night feels alive. But the church windows are dark. No visible glow spills from within. And yet, nearby, the houses shine warmly. Light fills their windows. Life is unfolding inside them. Above it all, the sky swirls with brilliance.

The pastor’s message was simple: our light is still meant to shine, even if the church feels dim. Institutions can struggle. Leadership can falter. But divine light is not confined to stained glass or governance. It lives in ordinary hearts. It glows in quiet acts of courage. It flickers in compassion, integrity, and prayer. The building may stand in shadow. But the sky is not dark.

In such seasons, something clarifies. You begin to separate spirituality from institutions. God from governance. Faith from faction. You notice how much of church life can revolve around reputation, alliances, influence, and structure, things that can overshadow prayer, humility, and transformation. And stepping back becomes less about rebellion and more about preservation. Preserving your conscience. Preserving your peace. Preserving your ability to trust that God is still good.

Jesus’ anger in the temple was not a rejection of worship. Instead, it was more a defence of the same. He cleansed the space because sacred spaces matter. Sometimes stepping back is not abandoning the church. Sometimes it is simply protecting the sacred space within your own soul.

There is grief in realizing when a church feels dim. Grief for what it could be. Grief for what it once was. Grief for unity that now feels strained. But look again at The Starry Night. The church may appear dark. The houses are not. The sky certainly is not. Divine light is not extinguished by politics. It does not disappear because leadership struggles. It is not confined to leadership or structures.

Institutions may dim. The stars still burn. God’s light is not trapped behind walls, and neither should ours be. Even if the steeple casts no glow, the night sky belongs to Him, and our lives are meant to reflect it.

The post When the Lights Go Out: Faith, Power, and the Silence of the Congregation appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

I’ve just returned from seven slow, carefree days in Tasmania, the kind of trip where time loosens its grip on you. There were no tight schedules, no shopping lists, no urgency to “see it all.” Just open roads, cold air, long walks, and landscapes that asked nothing of us except attention.

Tasmania is generous in that way. It offers wilderness without spectacle: World Heritage landscapes, rugged mountains, ancient forests, pristine beaches and alpine lakes. Beauty that doesn’t announce itself. Beauty that waits.

Almost every day, we crossed paths with other travellers, some of them standing before these vast natural scenes with a look that felt… uncertain. Not disappointed exactly, but perhaps underwhelmed. I noticed the pauses were brief. Photos were taken quickly. Conversations drifted toward what was next, what else there was to see, how long this stop needed to be. One family, annoyed with a lookout, even announced it to us as we hiked up. There is nothing much to see, just views, and its very windy.

Somewhere between that quiet lookout and another winding trail, the contrast became clear. For us, the absence of activity, the unpredictability of nature and being attuned to it was the experience. We lingered. We stayed longer than necessary because there was no necessity at all. The reward came slowly, in the way the light shifted, in the calm that arrived when nothing demanded our response.

Even our accomodations reflected this intention. Each was chosen with care: one looking out at Mount Wellington, another in Launceston with sweeping views and a third tucked deep in the woods, where rabbits and farm animals moved quietly through the day. We watched Mount Wellington change character with the hours. In Launceston, a wide yard stretched out below us, where a couple of horses grazed and a caravan sat still. I was content simply to observe.

For many travellers shaped by fast-moving, goal-oriented lives, nature seemed to pose an uncomfortable question: What do you do here? There was no shopping, no marquee attraction, no immediate payoff. Tasmania didn’t perform. It didn’t market itself. It refused to compress its value into a single frame. As Rebecca Solnit writes, leave the road, take the trails — a quiet invitation Tasmania extends at every turn.

That contrast clarified something about me.

I don’t travel to be stimulated; I travel to be softened. Cities sharpen me. Nature dissolves the edges. In places like Tasmania, I’m reminded that I don’t need to be constantly engaged to be fully alive. That stillness isn’t emptiness, it’s depth.

This isn’t a judgment of how others travel, only an observation of orientation. Some people travel to add — experiences, possessions, stories. I travel to subtract. To loosen my grip on noise, expectation, and the hunger for novelty.

Tasmania rewards that way of moving through the world. It asks for patience, presence, and a willingness to sit with boredom before being moved. In return, it offers something increasingly rare: the sensation that time is no longer pursuing you.

After seven days, I returned with no purchases, no dramatic photographs, no list checked off. What came home with me was subtler and more enduring, a loosening. Of urgency. Of expectation. Of the need to be entertained.

Some places ask you to move faster, to look harder, to take more. Tasmania asks the opposite. It asks you to slow down long enough to notice what remains when nothing is demanded of you.

Not every journey announces its value. Some work quietly, reshaping the way you sit with time, the way you listen, the way you breathe. You don’t always recognise the change as it happens. You feel it later, in the gentler pace you keep, in the spaces you no longer rush to fill.

Perhaps that is why some people leave places like Tasmania asking whether it was worth the journey.
Others leave knowing it was, not because something extraordinary ocurred, but because, for a moment, nothing needed to.

The post What Tasmania Taught Me About How We Travel appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

This year has been one of the hardest I’ve ever lived through, not because of one single, explosive moment, but because of a slow, relentless unraveling. The kind that happens quietly, day by day, until you wake up and realize you are no longer who you were when the year began.

I came to understand that some of the people I believed were friends were something else entirely: present when it was easy, absent when it wasn’t; warm when it benefited them, distant when it didn’t.

After my mother passed away, I was swallowed by grief. Time blurred. Days felt heavy and endless, each one about survival rather than living. In that state, my usual discernment disappeared. I was exposed, tender, and doing everything I could just to stay afloat. I look back now with compassion for myself, even as I recognize the red flags I missed. Grief has a way of quieting intuition and loosening boundaries you once held firmly.

A couple of weeks after returning from India, a group of acquaintances we had brought together was already eager to plan a catch-up. I wasn’t ready. I needed space, time to breathe. Yet within a month, there I was again, slipping back into a familiar role: organizing, checking in, planning picnics and get-togethers, trying to hold the group together, trying to make sure no one felt left out. All the while, I didn’t realize that conversations were happening without us: whispers, judgments, stories quietly told behind our backs.

I still struggle to understand why grown women being mean and choosing gossip over honesty. Why create narratives instead of having difficult conversations? Some people seemed energized by conflict; others avoided it entirely. I tried to stay steady, kind, and fair – to smooth things over, to keep the peace. But that effort taught me something painful and important: not everyone comes with the same heart, or the same intentions.

There are also those who only know how to take. They take your time, your emotional energy, your presence – without ever asking what it costs you. And you give anyway. You give while carrying your own grief, your own exhaustion, your own quiet battles. You give because you know what it feels like to be alone in pain, and you don’t want that for anyone else.

But making time doesn’t mean you have endless capacity. It doesn’t mean you’re free or unburdened. It means you’re choosing them. And even the most intentional care has limits.

Eventually, clarity arrived—not loudly, not dramatically, but gently and firmly. I began to see people for who they truly were. I stopped explaining. I stopped overextending. I stopped pouring from a cup that was already empty.

Some friendships don’t end loudly; they fade the moment you stop making it easy for others.
I realized: I want them to eat… just not at my table.

What hurt most wasn’t the distance, it was the realization of how unguarded I had been. During the most fragile period of my life, some never acknowledged my loss at all. Others mentioned my mother’s passing briefly, only to pivot the conversation back to themselves. That ache ran deep, especially because I had been present for them during their own moments of grief. At one of my lowest points, all some could ask was, “So when is the next get-together?” In that moment, everything became painfully clear.

With time, my anger softened into understanding. I’ve learned that not everyone is intentionally unkind. Some people are simply limited in their ability to hold space for others. Their emotional world is small, and anything that falls outside of it, especially grief – goes unseen. That understanding doesn’t erase the hurt, but it does bring peace.

This year stripped away illusions I didn’t know I was clinging to. It broke my heart, but it also returned me to myself. I now know that real friendship shows up quietly – in silence, in sorrow, in moments that offer nothing in return. And moving forward, I choose depth over numbers, sincerity over familiarity, and people who stay when life is heavy, because I am someone who loves deeply, and I deserve the same in return.

I didn’t lose people this year – I learned who I no longer have to carry.

The post The Year I Learned Who Was Real appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

But lately, something has shifted.
The sanctuary I once knew has grown sharp edges—
conflict in the corners,
judgment drifting through the hallways,
manipulation tucked behind polite smiles,
and emotional wounds disguised as concern.
It is heartbreaking to watch a place built for love
crack open into something unrecognizable.

I spent most of my years sheltered by better churches—
not perfect,
but pure in their intention.
Growing up, we had no walls or stained glass,
just a small circle of Christians
from every denomination,
gathering on Sunday evenings to lift their voices as one.
No politics.
No power struggles.
Only worship,
only friendship,
only a kind of unity that felt almost holy.

Chennai gave us that gift too—
a young, earnest church
filled with people who came for one reason alone: to seek God.
Those years shaped my children,
filled them with laughter and learning,
and left behind memories I treasure deeply.
For that, I will always be grateful.

And then came Adelaide.
And with it, a storm I never saw coming.

Here, church felt different—
not like a sanctuary,
but like a stage.
People paraded newly earned wealth,
staking invisible claims as though God’s house were a territory to conquer.
It felt less like prayer
and more like politics.
Less like worship
and more like a club
where influence was the membership card.

Even the children were swept into it—
caught in currents of comparison and division.
Events that should have woven us into one body
were used instead to split the church into manageable pieces—
as if unity were something to fear,
and people were easier to rule
when they stood apart.

New families were greeted instantly—
not with the open arms of Christ,
but with the eager hands of recruiters.
Invitations poured in,
not to love them,
but to claim them.
Mark them.
Pull them into someone’s orbit.

And what baffled me most
was how easily so many surrendered to it—
as though choosing a “side”
were the highest calling of Christian life.
As though this chaos was normal.
As though this was church.

I expect such battles in the world,
but in the house of prayer?
Where hearts are meant to heal,
and burdens are meant to soften?

It left a hollow ache in me—
a quiet grief for the church I once knew,
and for the God whose love deserves better vessels than this.

In time, I found myself unable to pray.

Not in church—
not in the place that once felt like refuge,
not during the moments I needed it most.
When I was grieving the loss of a parent,
when my heart was at its heaviest,
church offered me no comfort.
I stood there, surrounded by worship,
yet unable to lift a single word to heaven.
Everything inside me felt numb.

Then one day, almost by chance,
someone suggested I watch The Chosen.
Just a show, a story,
nothing more.

But through that screen,
grace found its way back to me.
Something in the way Jesus walked,
in the way compassion unfolded,
in the way love looked people in the eyes—
it stirred a spark buried deep
under the weight of hurt and disappointment.

And slowly,
almost imperceptibly,
faith began to breathe again.

It took a simple series to remind me
of a truth my father had taught me,
but I had forgotten amidst all the noise:

Faith was never meant to rest on the shoulders of people
or the walls of a church.
It was always meant to rest on God.

Maybe healing begins here—
in releasing the expectation
that wounded humans can perfectly reflect
a perfect God.

Church may falter.
People may fail.
Communities may fracture.
But God—
God remains.

Even when I stopped praying.
Even when I walked away.
Even when silence felt safer than faith.

He waited.
He sought me out.
He spoke through unexpected places—
even through a television series—
and reminded me gently
that He had never left.

I was simply grieving.
Simply hurting.
Simply trying to find my way back.

And now,
step by step,
I am.

The post I left the Church to find the One I was seeking… appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

Growing up in Lakshadweep, we always celebrated it — hunting for flowers all over the island with friends, creating pookalams from atham day onwards, and building up to a full-blown Onasadya on Thiruvonam. It was a season of joy, colour, and togetherness.

Even after marriage, I made it a point to keep that tradition alive. The girls grew up looking forward to pookalam-making, and of course, the grand feast on Thiruvonam day.

We managed to celebrate Onam for three years even after moving here. But eventually, it all became a bit too much. The guilt of not being able to visit Mom weighed heavily on me. Without her by my side, something felt missing — and slowly, I stopped celebrating. The sadya pots stayed in the cupboard. The flowers never made it to the floor. The festival lost its spark at home — and I let it.

But this year, something shifted.

If there’s one thing recent events have taught me, it’s this: life is meant to be lived — not someday, but now.

So here it is. A small step. A gentle return to the tradition I love, in my own way, in my own time.

Onam is back at home — and so is a little part of me.

The post Onam appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

This Monday marks seven years since we took the leap and moved to Australia. Seven whole years. It’s hard to put into words what this journey has meant — but it’s been nothing short of life-changing. As I sit with that thought, I can’t help but reflect on everything we’ve been through since that first day.

Here’s the thing: nothing truly prepares you for a move like this.

Back then, I genuinely thought I had it all figured out. Research is my thing — my not-so-secret superpower. I’d done my homework, every checklist ticked, every article read. I thought I was ready.

Looking back now… how sweet. How naive.
Because no amount of preparation equips you for the emotional whirlwind of leaving behind everything familiar — or the courage it takes to rebuild your world from the ground up.

But somehow, here we are. Stronger. Wiser. Grateful.

You don’t truly realize the comfort you once lived in until it’s gone. It’s only after you move that those everyday conveniences you took for granted reveal themselves for what they really were—luxuries.

Simple things like having a cook prepare your meals, a cleaner tidy up the house, a gardener tend the plants, clothes ironed without lifting a finger, a car washed daily on schedule, someone to ferry the kids around, or even medicines and groceries delivered straight to your door—these were once just part of the routine. Looking back, it almost feels surreal. Like a dream.

Make no mistake, this country has given me far more than I ever knew to ask for. It has tested me, transformed me, and helped me grow into a version of myself I never imagined.

With time, you learn to stand tall on your own—to become self-reliant—not because you want to, but because life demands it. And that shift? It takes everything you’ve got.

It takes grit to rise above moments of self-pity, to quiet the doubts, and to rebuild a sense of stability from the ground up.

For me, that reckoning came early — those first three months alone with the girls were a crash course in survival. It was overwhelming, exhausting, and deeply humbling. But it shaped me. It built a resilience I now carry with pride, and a quiet confidence that I can face whatever life decides to throw my way.

And true to form, I’ve gone off on a tangent and haven’t even touched on what I actually meant to talk about today — adult friendships.

When you move to a new country in your late thirties, like I did, friendships aren’t really at the top of your priority list. You’re focused on finding a job that pays the bills, settling your kids into a whole new world, and simply surviving day-to-day. Making new friends just… doesn’t feel urgent.

But once the dust settles, you realize something quietly painful — not only have you left your family behind, but in many ways, you’ve also drifted away from your closest friends.

Now, I’m not saying those friendships vanish — far from it. The bond is still there, woven through years of shared memories, laughter, tears, and moments that shaped us. That connection never truly fades. But life… life gets overwhelming. The endless balancing act of work, parenting, and the weight of adulthood slowly pushes those friendships to the edges of our hearts. They don’t disappear, but they quietly slip into the background, waiting for the rare moments when time and energy allow us to reach out again.

And once you’ve finally found your footing, you begin to take those tentative, baby steps toward building new friendships. And let me tell you — that’s when the real surprises begin.

You slowly realize that not everyone who moved here came chasing a better life — many came purely to chase better income. And to be clear, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with wanting financial stability or success. We all want that.

The challenge, though, lies in what happens when people choose not to adapt to the culture or values of the country they now call home. Instead of integrating, some try to recreate a bubble — a mini version of the India they left behind, complete with the baggage of caste labels, rigid social hierarchies, and that familiar middle-class syndrome we thought we’d outgrown.

It’s disheartening, especially when you’re trying to embrace change and build something new, only to find yourself navigating the same old mindsets in a brand new setting.

And then there are the people you think you’ll click with — those who seem to share your values, your worldview. Maybe they’ve lived in other Indian metros, maybe they’ve spent time abroad. You assume that kind of exposure brings openness, understanding, and a willingness to connect on a deeper level. But again, you’re left stunned. Because surface-level similarity doesn’t always translate to emotional alignment.

Through these experiences, you start to learn some hard truths about adult friendships. Some people will take advantage of your kindness. Some will mistake your warmth for weakness. Others are all talk — full of promises and flowery words. But like they say, words are just wind.

Friendship, like anything meaningful, needs effort — from both sides. You can’t always be the giver, the one making space, initiating, and showing up. Because eventually, even the most generous heart runs out of steam. And when that happens, the quiet distance that follows isn’t anger… it’s self-preservation.

As a giver, once I hit rock bottom, there’s no dramatic fallout — just a quiet retreat. I begin to pull back, slowly but surely, one layer at a time. Because the reality is, even those who give endlessly need to be replenished. Even givers need to feel acknowledged, appreciated, and genuinely cared for — every now and then.

You can’t keep showing up for others when your own cup is empty. And when that realization hits, self-protection becomes necessary, not selfish.

So, ladies and gentlemen, here’s the takeaway: If you have even a handful of people you can truly call home in a foreign land, consider yourself incredibly lucky. Because at the end of the day, that’s all that really matters.

It’s not about the number of people in your circle or the superficial connections we so often chase. It’s not about the ones who just smile and wave as you pass by. It’s about those rare souls who see you — all of you, in your most vulnerable, imperfect moments. The ones who make you feel heard, understood, and accepted, even when the world feels like a stranger.

I’ve learned that true friendship isn’t about keeping score or exchanging pleasantries; it’s about standing by each other in silence, offering a hand when needed, and sometimes, just being a quiet presence in a moment of uncertainty.

And to those friends — you know who you are — thank you. Thank you for being my safe harbor when the seas were rough, for lighting up the darkest corners of my life, and for reminding me that no matter how far we are from home, we are never truly alone.

So hold your friendships close, because it’s these bonds, no matter how few, that make all the difference. They are the thread that weaves us through the toughest days, the laughter that lightens the hardest moments, and the warmth that keeps us going when everything else feels cold.

In the end, these are the people who make the distance feel smaller, the world feel a little less vast, and remind us that even in the most foreign of places, we can find pieces of home.

Cherish them, nurture them, love them. They are the gift, the blessing, and the very heart of this incredible journey. And without them, none of it would be as beautiful or as worthwhile.

The post Wisdom from the Southern Skies… appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

If I’m being truly honest, this has been the longest, hardest year of my life and not even the depths of the Covid years come close. I’ve had moments where I wasn’t sure if I’d already hit my lowest point or if the fall wasn’t over yet.

Losing both parents… it’s something you can never really prepare for, no matter how old you are. The absence is loud. And grief – it doesn’t follow rules.

But enough about me. This post is for Mom, and the incredible woman she was.

I still think about the beautiful words the priest shared at her funeral. I wish someone had recorded the same – it was moving, heartfelt and full of admiration. You could tell they had a genuine connection, and that came through in every word he spoke.

He talked about her deep bond with the church, her charity work, and the unwavering love she had for her husband. Towards the end, he turned to us, her daughters and gently reminded us to take our time to grieve, but also to hold onto the comfort that she had lived a full and faithful life. That she had fought the good fight and was now reunited with the love of her life. And above all, he said, she would want us to continue living — wholeheartedly, meaningfully, and with God at the heart of everything.

If I were to list even a fraction of her acts of charity, I could fill an entire book — she was that much of a giver. And what made it even more beautiful was that she never expected anything in return. She gave selflessly, never spoke ill of anyone, and was the strongest person I’ve ever known.

Of all the stories Dad and others have shared about her, one in particular stands out.

She was in training at Calicut Medical College when she came across a dishevelled gentleman who had come to donate blood. Sensing something wasn’t quite right, she gently struck up a conversation and soon found out he was from my father’s hometown. His son had been admitted to the hospital in critical condition. Mom took the time to visit the child over the next few days, but sadly, the boy passed away. When she realized the father couldn’t even afford to begin the child’s funeral, she didn’t pause even for a second — she gave him all the money she had.

Now, keep in mind, this was back in 1981. I was just three months old at the time, being looked after by my dad at his family home. She had to call him and ask if he could travel from Kochi to Calicut — because she’d given away everything she had and was left with nothing. And to Dad’s credit, he didn’t even blink when she told him. She had given all her money to help a stranger, and he simply got on the road.

That story became something of a legend in my dad’s hometown. And for years afterward, the boy’s family would visit her whenever they were in town — as if paying quiet tribute to the kindness they never forgot.

The Bible verse that reminds me most of my mom is this:
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.”

She lived those words fully — with strength, grace, and a fierce commitment to what was right. Whether it was in her quiet acts of compassion or the values she passed on to us, she ran her race with purpose and unwavering faith.

And as I reflect on this Lenten season, I realize more than ever that my greatest strength — my superpower — is that I am my mother’s daughter.

Picture Courtesy: Kunjechi

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Growing up in Lakshadweep meant there were no bakeries around until I was in 8th standard or so. Even then, papa somehow managed to get a cake flown in from Kochi or Calicut to coincide with Christmas and my birthday (I still have no clue how he managed this feat every year without fail). We would also go big decorating the Casuarina tree outside and even have a small tree inside our home! We really went all out for Christmas.

I have tried to create the same magic for our girls from the time they were small kids. The girls would write a letter to Santa every Christmas with their wish list. They were always careful with their list though, they made sure Santa didn’t end up spending too much, yet at the same time ensured their friend received a gift from Santa as well. As for us, we somehow managed to keep the magic alive until the younger one turned 11. That’s a good innings indeed! The girls even have distinct memories of hearing bells jingling and seeing flashes of red at midnight. Oh, the things you do for your children

Christmas this year has been very different though. With both mom and dad not around this Christmas, its all been a bit overwhelming to say the least. After Papa passed away some 24 years ago, mom had sort of built this tradition of buying us dresses for our birthdays. She would insist on taking me out to buy a new dress just to ensure I was not spending the money on something else. She still managed to send stuff for a couple of years after we moved to Adelaide, and then Covid hit and everything went downhill. I thought I was prepared to make it through this season, yet ended up faltering so many times. I honestly didn’t even have the energy to put up the Christmas tree or the decorations, and the girls and Freddy stepped in.

And my friends went above and beyond with their thoughtful gestures and messages these past few weeks. They literally stepped up and made me go, “I lucked out in the friends department”. For someone who doesn’t like surprises, I was even surprised with a birthday dinner! And when it was time to blow the candle and make a wish, it just dawned on me that I have everything I have ever wanted and more. My parents may not be with me physically anymore, but I do carry their love in my heart and that is enough. For I do have them both walking beside me always, and I couldn’t really ask for more.

I am a firm believer in the magic of the season, especially the magic that happens around the Christmas tree. It radiates so much warmth, joy and gives everyone some much-needed cheer. And I think bailey just makes everything 10 times better by taking out the baubles with a swish of his tail every time he walks by. So here’s to family, friends, four legged friends and unconditional love.

The post As the Chapter Closes… appeared first on FamilyFoodTravels.

Grief is here to stay. You just learn to hide it better as each day passes by. And with time, you even learn to be grateful, for grief is just love. It is all the love you want to give, but cannot.

There is a major shift in your friendships. The ones who check in on you are the ones who count. And the ones who keep checking in on you even after months have passed by, they are the keepers. The ones who stay when you are no longer fun to be with, the ones who give you bone crushing hugs day in day out and the ones who take time out of their busy schedules when you have nothing to offer in return are the ones to truly cherish.

Grief teaches you there is absolutely no room for drama. Life is just too short to focus on those who only bring toxicity to the table. And it is ok to weed out those drama queens. A smaller circle of badass women, that’s all you need.

Other people’s commentary on your grieving process is not your responsibility. You do not owe anyone an explanation.

The one thing that I hope everyone understood about grief? Strong people break too. They do not have it all together all the time. Because beneath those smiles is often someone crying out for help and compassion.

No matter how grief has weaved its way into your life, the grieving process takes time. Allow yourself to grieve. And take all the time you need..

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