There are days when my chest feels like it’s caving in. When the weight of motherhood, medicine, and simply being human all collide into a tangled knot that sits heavy on my ribs. On those days, I whisper little mantras to myself:
> “This is not forever. You have made it through worse. Breathe. Begin again.”
I’ve been many things in this life — a daughter, a doctor, a dreamer, a single mother navigating the unpredictable tides of life in Dhaka, Bangladesh. I’ve held hands that were warm with hope, and hands that grew cold as life slipped quietly away. I’ve witnessed first breaths and final breaths, and somewhere in between, I found my own breath — fragile yet determined.
🌸 Motherhood: My softest place and my fiercest battle
Being a mother is my sweetest role. It’s also the most terrifying.
My children are these little galaxies of giggles, questions, and breathtaking innocence. They trust me to build their world — even when I feel like I’m still figuring out my own.
I stay up at night running numbers: tuition fees, grocery costs, visa rules, dreams of a better life. I battle guilt and exhaustion, but every morning when Saamarah and Nihaan look up at me with sleepy eyes and say, “Ma, come play!” — it’s like the sun comes up inside my chest.
💉 Medicine: The profession that broke me and built me
I chose medicine because I wanted to heal.
Truth is, sometimes it hurt more than it healed.
Long shifts, watching young patients with cancer, seeing families fracture under grief — it all leaves scars.
But it also gave me a tenderness I wouldn’t trade for anything. I’ve become a collector of stories — stories of resilience, of heartbreak, of miracles. Each patient taught me something about the art of being human.
💔 Loss and loneliness
I lost my father not long ago. A grief that was sharp and strange. A part of me still expects to hear his voice on the other end of the phone, asking, “Khawa daowa thikmoto hocche?” (Are you eating well?)
Losing family changes you. It cracks open the places you’ve carefully plastered over. But in that rawness, I’ve also found compassion — for myself, and for everyone else stumbling through life with unseen bruises.
🌱 Hope: The quiet hero of my story
Here’s what I’ve learned:
Even on the darkest days, hope whispers.
Sometimes it sounds like my children laughing on the rooftop, chasing pigeons.
Sometimes it’s the gentle voice inside that says, “You’re allowed to dream again.”
I’m planning a new chapter now — higher studies abroad, new horizons, maybe even writing more openly about mental health and motherhood. I’m terrified. But I’m also exhilarated. Because life, with all its messiness, keeps inviting me to grow.
💌 If you’re reading this…
Maybe you’re a tired parent. Maybe you’re battling something private. Maybe you’re just trying to survive another ordinary day.
I want you to know: you’re not alone.
It’s okay to cry in the shower, to drink cold coffee, to feel both grateful and overwhelmed at the same time.
Hold on. Keep going.
There are sunrises ahead that will make you grateful you stayed.
❤️ With love from my messy, magical corner of the world,
Tamanna
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