insights into my soul pulled from medium.com/@radhamehta
the first time I believed I deserved peace
it didn’t arrive with fireworks or fanfare.
peace came quietly — like mist lifting after a storm, revealing a sky I hadn’t truly seen in years.
blue. expansive. touchable.
the first time I believed I deserved peace came long after love had left me breathless.
after loving someone with bipolar disorder,
after walking through a minefield of moods,
after carrying guilt like a second skin.
it was love steeped in silence and confusion.
we turned to family for help,
but their eyes, like ours, were filled with fog —
raised in a culture where mental health is a ghost we don’t name,
even as it haunts our every thought,
even as it fuels — or fractures — our survival.
in the aftermath,
I grieved not only the relationship,
but the version of myself that believed love meant staying through the storm even when I was drowning.
there were days I felt like a trigger,
a source of harm to the ones I cherished most.
there were nights I wondered if the world would breathe easier without me in it.
but healing is not a straight line — it’s a spiral,
and worthiness is not earned by perfection.
the day I felt peace — truly felt it — was the day I gave birth to my first child.
holding that small, sacred life against my chest,
I understood:
this was my reward for choosing myself.
this was what waited on the other side of letting go.
it wasn’t just a child I birthed,
but a new version of me —
a woman who no longer chases love to prove she is enough,
but stands still,
grounded,
finally knowing she already is.