I don’t remember when it started — the quiet shift from seeing my parents as “grown-ups” to seeing them as people. Maybe it was sometime after I turned twenty-one, when I began to notice things I used to overlook. Like how my dad sometimes forgets where he put his keys, or how my mom sighs before sitting down after a long day. Small things, nothing dramatic. Just human things.
They’re not old, not even close. My parents are in their mid-forties — still teasing each other over tea, still arguing about what to watch after dinner, still calling me to ask why I haven’t updated my LinkedIn profile. But somewhere between their routines and my growing independence, something changed in how I saw them.
When I was little, I thought they knew everything. Adulthood, to me, was a synonym for certainty — for knowing how to do taxes, when to change jobs, how to solve every problem. But now that I’m standing at the edge of it myself, I realize that’s not true at all. Adulthood, I’m learning, is mostly about trying your best while pretending you have a plan.
And when I think about it, that’s exactly what my parents must have been doing too — just a couple of twenty-somethings, improvising their way through parenthood and hoping they were doing it right.
The Illusion of Certainty
In Indian households, parents rarely talk about uncertainty. It’s not that they don’t feel it — it’s just that they were raised to hide it. Vulnerability, for them, was never an option; it was a luxury. Growing up, I never once saw my parents panic, or admit they didn’t know what to do. Even when money was tight or when the gas cylinder gave out at 9 p.m., they would just sigh, make a call, and fix it.
There was always this quiet competence to them, as if life could throw anything their way and they’d just… handle it. When the electricity went out, my dad would find a lamp before I even realized it was dark. When I got sick, my mom somehow always had the right medicine tucked away in a tin box. They didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t show doubt. It’s strange — the older I get, the more I realize that calm wasn’t the absence of fear; it was discipline. It was control.
They couldn’t afford to crumble, so they didn’t.
And I think that’s part of why we mistake them for being invincible — because they don’t let us see the cracks. They fix them quietly, with late nights and unspoken worry.
Now that I’m older, I see it more clearly. When I visit home, there are tiny moments where the façade slips — not because they’ve become weaker, but because I’ve become more observant.
There’s something tender about watching your parents exist when they think you’re not watching. You start to see the layers that never showed when you were a child — the weariness behind the smile, the nostalgia behind the silence.
I catch my dad rubbing his temples after a long day, the same hands that once carried all bags and my school projects without complaint. I catch my mom muttering under her breath while cooking, replaying arguments from years ago with people she’s already forgiven. They still hold the house together like they always did, but now I can sense the cost of that steadiness.
And maybe that’s what growing up does — it gives you new eyes. Eyes that see not just the strength, but the strain. Not just the care, but the effort behind it.
When I was younger, I used to think they were made of something stronger — something unshakeable. But now I know they were just human beings who learned how to carry their fear in silence. Their calm wasn’t magic. It was practice. It was survival. It was the quiet choreography of two people doing their best to make life look easy for me, even when it wasn’t.
I think about that sometimes — about how much of love in an Indian home is about pretending you’re fine. About how care often means protecting the people you love from the heaviness of the truth. My parents never lied, but they edited reality in softer tones. They gave me safety not by removing chaos, but by hiding their own exhaustion behind small acts of normalcy.
Now that I’m older, I recognize that kind of love — the kind that doesn’t say, “I’m scared,” but still finds a way to make your favorite meal after a bad day. The kind that worries quietly while you’re asleep. The kind that breaks, but only in private.
And when I see them now — a little quieter, a little slower, a little more thoughtful — I feel this strange tenderness. Like I’m watching the curtain lift on a story I thought I already knew.
Because they are still figuring things out. Still learning how to grow older, how to let go, how to trust that I’ll be okay without them.
And there’s something heartbreakingly beautiful about that — realizing that the people who once taught you everything are still teaching themselves how to live.
They Were Young Once Too
It’s a strange, humbling thing — realizing that your parents were your age once. We know it in theory, of course. We’ve all seen their wedding albums, heard stories about “when we first moved into this house.” But something shifts the first time you really see it — not as trivia, but as truth.
When I look at old photo albums now, I linger longer than I used to.
They were maybe twenty-three, twenty-four — still learning how to cook, how to budget, how to share a life. My mom probably hadn’t yet learned how to roll rotis perfectly round. My dad was probably still figuring out how to stretch one paycheck across an entire month. They didn’t have everything figured out. But they had each other, and somehow, that was enough.
And yet, in those photos, they’re already someone’s parents — or about to be. That realization always hits me hardest. At an age when I’m still trying to remember to do laundry on time and pay my bills without a reminder, add two years to that and they were raising a child. They were building a home, navigating new responsibilities, and pretending to know how adulthood works.
Sometimes, I wonder what they must have felt back then. Did they ever lie awake at night, terrified of failing? Did they ever look at me — a newborn, small and fragile — and wonder if they were ready for this? Did my mom feel tired after moving into a new household, surrounded by expectations? Did my dad ever feel the weight of being the “responsible one” when he was barely out of his twenties?
At twenty-one, I can barely take care of myself, let alone someone else. I burn toast, misplace my keys, forget birthdays. I’m still learning how to be an adult in the smallest ways. So, when I imagine them, barely older than I am now, holding me for the first time — terrified, exhausted, but determined — I can’t help but be in awe.
That thought doesn’t make me pity them. It makes me respect them more. Because they did it anyway. They showed up. They figured it out day by day, mistake by mistake. They built a life out of uncertainty, held it together with routine, and filled it with love in ways they didn’t always have words for.
Maybe that’s what parenthood really is — a quiet kind of bravery. Not a perfect, cinematic courage, but the kind that shows up every morning. The kind that learns on the go, even when no one’s teaching you.
Sometimes I imagine what they must have been like outside of those roles. What did my mom laugh about with her friends back then? What kind of books did my dad read before he had to his time teaching me to read? There’s something tender about realizing that they had entire lives before I entered the picture — entire selves that existed beyond the titles of “Mom” and “Dad.”
It’s strange how time works like that — how we outgrow the very people who once seemed unchangeable, only to look back and realize they were just growing up alongside us all along.
And now, when I look at them — a little older, a little softer, still teasing each other about who snores louder — I see those twenty-somethings still there. Not gone, just layered underneath the years.
They’re not just my parents anymore. They’re people who once took a leap of faith, not knowing where they’d land — and somehow, they built a life out of it.
Love in Translation
In my house, love was never loud. It wasn’t “I love you” or “I’m proud of you.” It was quieter than that — humbler, almost shy. It was fruit cut before I asked for it. It was my dad checking if I’m okay and sitting with me cracking the lamest jokes when I was being too hard on myself. It was my mom remembering exactly what food I want to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner every time I’m back home.
In Indian families, love often hides behind logistics. It’s scolding disguised as concern — “You don’t eat on time!” actually meaning “I worry when you’re not okay.” It’s silence meant as protection, where they’d rather absorb the hurt than admit something’s wrong. It’s food used as a language of care — a language older than words, spoken through warm parathas, extra curries, and tea waiting on the stove.
For the longest time, I mistook that for distance. I thought we weren’t the kind of family that said how we felt. I thought affection only counted if it was spoken, if it sounded like something out of a movie — dramatic, verbal, unmistakable. But our home never worked like that. We loved quietly, in half gestures and small habits, in routines that repeated until they became invisible.
Now, when I look back, I realize we always said it — just not in words.
My parents’ generation grew up with different definitions of love. For them, affection wasn’t something you declared; it was something you did. Love was responsibility. It was consistency. It was showing up, no matter how tired you were. They worked hard, they saved, they worried, they provided. They didn’t talk about feelings because there was no time to — and maybe because no one ever gave them the space to.
My mom learned to love through care — through remembering, through anticipating, through making sure nothing ever ran out. My dad loved through effort — through early mornings and late nights, through being dependable. Together, they built a home where affection wasn’t ornamental. It was woven into the very fabric of living.
I used to think they were emotionally distant. Now I think they were emotionally fluent — just in a language I hadn’t learned yet. A language that sounds like, “Did you eat?”, “Text me when you reach,” or “Why are you spending so much on food delivery?” It’s a dialect made of concern, wrapped in habit, softened by time.
And once you start to understand that language, you start to hear love everywhere — in the way my mom still packs snacks for hostel, even when I tell her I can buy my own; in the way my dad insists on checking the house lock twice before we leave, even when it’s already secure.
They may not say “I love you,” but they live it every single day. In their worry, their care, their endless, ordinary ways of keeping me safe.
And maybe that’s what love in our homes really is — not grand, not loud, but constant. The kind that lingers in gestures so small you almost miss them, until one day you grow up and realize they were everything.
The Softening of Two People
The biggest change, though, isn’t just in how I see them — it’s in how they’ve changed too. My dad, who once used to be strict about grades and routines, now tells me not to stress too much. The same man who once scolded me for sleeping past eight now tells me to “rest when you need to.” My mom, who used to panic if I stayed out late, now just texts, “Be safe, come back soon.” There’s a softness in those words that didn’t exist before — a kind of quiet trust that took years to build.
They’ve both mellowed with time, but not because they’ve stopped caring. If anything, I think they care more deeply now — just differently. They’ve realized that control doesn’t equal protection, that worry doesn’t always prevent harm. Maybe that’s what age does — it teaches you that love sometimes means letting go, even when every instinct tells you to hold on tighter.
When I look at them now, I see two people learning to parent an adult instead of a child. It’s not an easy adjustment, for any of us. They’re learning to ask instead of instruct, to suggest instead of insist. And I’m learning to understand that even when they seem overprotective, it’s just habit — an echo of all the years when my well-being was entirely in their hands.
We’re all navigating this new balance together: them trying not to worry too much, and me trying to reassure them that I’ll be fine. Sometimes I catch my mom biting back the urge to say “don’t go out too late” and instead just saying “text me when you reach.” Sometimes my dad hovers outside my room when I’m crying, unsure if he should come in, before deciding to just come in and give me a hug.
It’s not perfect. We still argue over small things — money, chores, opinions. They still overstep sometimes; I still snap. But there’s more patience now. More laughter between the silences. More understanding hidden in everyday exchanges.
And maybe that’s what real closeness looks like in adulthood — not constant agreement, but mutual gentleness. A kind of unspoken peace that says, we’re trying, all of us, to meet each other halfway.
When I was younger, I thought love was supposed to feel intense — dramatic, overwhelming. Now I think it feels like this: steady, forgiving, ever-evolving. A slow easing into each other’s humanity.
Because somewhere between their letting go and my growing up, we’ve all softened — not out of weakness, but out of love.
A Middle Ground Between Then and Now
It’s funny — when I was younger, I thought I’d stop needing them once I moved out. I thought adulthood meant complete independence, that freedom was about figuring things out on my own. I used to roll my eyes when my mom double-checked if I’d eaten or when my dad reminded me to be careful when travelling. I couldn’t wait to be the one in charge of my own life.
But somehow, the opposite happened. The older I get, the more I reach for them — just in quieter, humbler ways. I still call my mom to tell her about my day even if nothing really exciting happened. I still text my dad to ask his advice on things I’ve technically already decided, because somehow, hearing his reasoning steadies me. Maybe I don’t need them in the same way anymore — but I still want them around. Not out of dependence, but out of comfort.
Because now, I understand something I couldn’t before: parents don’t stay parents in the same way forever. They evolve into something softer — part friend, part anchor, part reminder of who you used to be. Sometimes they’re the safe place you return to after a long day. Sometimes they’re the quiet voice reminding you of your roots when the world feels too fast, too new.
It’s strange how the relationship changes shape but never loses its weight. We go from asking them to fix things to just wanting them to listen. From being scolded for staying up too late to having them ask if you’re sleeping enough. It’s no longer about authority; it’s about connection. About knowing that even if you can handle life on your own, you don’t have to.
And the more I grow up, the more I see that we’re all just trying our best — fumbling our way through decisions, learning how to love better with time. They were once twenty-somethings too, figuring life out one small, uncertain step at a time — just like I am now.
Sometimes I look at them and wonder if they ever felt as lost as I do sometimes, if they ever looked at their parents and thought, Will I ever have it all figured out? Because now, I know the answer — none of us ever really do. We just learn how to keep going, and how to love each other a little better along the way.
Still Becoming
My parents are still becoming. Still learning. Still growing. So am I.
And maybe that’s the most comforting truth of all — that none of us ever really arrive. We don’t hit a point where we suddenly “figure it all out.” We just keep shifting, softening, trying again. Each year, each mistake, each small act of love reshapes us — makes us a little wiser, a little kinder, a little more real.
When I look at my parents now — still laughing, still arguing over what to order for dinner, still teasing each other about old habits — I don’t just see Mom and Dad. I see two people who chose to grow up together. Two people who built a life out of compromise and small joys. Two people who made countless invisible sacrifices so that I could have the kind of life they only dreamed of.
There’s something quietly beautiful about that — watching them still figure things out, still adapt to new worlds, still learning how to be softer with themselves and with me. They’re not frozen in the roles I once assigned them. They’re still evolving, still curious, still very much alive in the becoming.
And the older I get, the more I see — they’re not growing old.
They’re just growing real.
What i owe them
People often say, “You don’t owe your parents anything.” Maybe that’s true for some. But I can’t bring myself to believe it fully. Because when I think of all the dreams they quietly put aside, all the late nights they endured so I wouldn’t have to, all the ways they gave without asking anything in return — I can’t help but feel that I do owe them.
Not in the way that weighs you down, but in the way gratitude lifts you up. I owe them effort. I owe them kindness. I owe them the best version of myself — not out of guilt, but out of love. Because how could I not want to give back to the people who gave me everything they never had?
So yes — everything I do, and will do, carries a piece of them in it. Every small success, every quiet moment of joy, every future I build — it all loops back to them. To the two people who taught me what love looks like when it doesn’t need to be said aloud.
Maybe that’s what growing up really means — not moving away from your parents, but learning to love them in new ways. Seeing them as people who once stood where you are now, and realizing that the story they began, you get to continue.
And when I think of that — of everything they’ve given, everything they still are — I know one thing for sure:
I don’t just want to make them proud.
I want to make them happy.
Because if they spent their lives building a gentler world for me, the least I can do is fill it with light for them.
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