Back in the seventeenth century, the Western world made some startling scientific discoveries that changed world views. One of those discoveries was Galileo’s telescope, which provided further evidence for Copernican’s heliocentrism: A model that positioned the Sun at the centre of the universe. This model replaced the centuries-old belief that Earth was at the center of the universe. This astronomical discovery had societal consequences—it meant humans were no longer the center of the universe. 

We’re not that important. 

So the universe doesn’t revolve around Earth—that’s old news for us today in 2021. Then, why am I bringing it up, anyway? Because it’s a great example of how humanity put itself at the center of its own world for centuries! 

It’s only human, but that doesn’t make it true. 

Earth isn’t the center of the universe, and individuals aren’t the center of other people’s worlds either. Thinking you are at the center of everyone’s world is a phenomenon known as the spotlight effect. It’s anxiety tricking you into believing that (especially when you make a mistake) everyone is watching you, that they’re judging you, and that you’re terrible for it. As an individual, we’re constantly thinking about ourselves, because we’re the nucleus in our world—the protagonist in our life story.

But that also means you’re not the protagonist in someone else’s story. 

You’re not that important. I’m not that important. And that’s good!

In someone else’s story, they are their own protagonist.

This is a great thing, especially for those of us who are very self-conscious or deal with social anxiety, because it means everyone is the center of their own world. We’re not in the spotlight. Everyone is busy with themselves, worrying about themselves, thinking about themselves, so they’re less likely to notice something embarrassing or if something might be off with you—if you said the wrong thing, if the shirt you’re wearing has a stain on it, if you got a new haircut. 

As someone who does have social anxiety, I really try to keep the spotlight effect in mind. I’m a huge overthinker, and I worry a great deal about how I am perceived or if others are judging me. This absolutely has to do with generational trauma that I’ve inherited. And I’m trying to not let other people’s opinions affect me, but that’s much harder to unlearn… so I wanted to offer this bit of insight too. Think of it as an additional step on the road to shifting validation from external factors to internal ones. 

I used to spend so much time after a social event worrying or feeling bad or being hard on myself for not being perfect. And it’s just so exhausting and so unfair and so unrealistic. 

People aren’t thinking this much about me, so why am I? Why am I being this hard on myself? People are less aware of or less likely to notice these minor (and sometimes huge) things unless we bring them up ourselves. It’s really interesting how we draw attention to things we find embarrassing—to the thing we want to avoid—only to discover others weren’t actually paying attention to it. And if they were, they probably didn't care as much about it as we did.

I think it’s a really freeing notion to keep in mind when I need to reframe an anxious thought into a thought that’s rooted in reality. Just like Earth isn’t the center of the universe, neither are we the center of anyone else’s world. So, just be you. And it’s ok if you make mistakes. People probably won’t notice or care as much as you do, anyway. 

Next time you’re overthinking and worrying about how others might be judging you, be conscious of the spotlight effect and try to ground yourself in reality by asking: Do you remember everyone’s flaws? Can you still recall someone’s random embarrassing moment from three months ago? Are you judging everyone for every single mistake they ever made? Or are you caught up in your own mind, thinking about yourself? If so, why would anyone else be any different?

Take a deep breath. Roll your shoulders back. 

Stop clenching your jaw. Release your breath.

Please know that you're doing your best. And that's enough! 🧡

Let’s talk about hair. A lot can be said about hair, and many before me have done so. As a woman, especially a brown woman, or a woman with dark body hair, I’ve dealt with bullying and shaming throughout my youth and even into adulthood. The hair on my legs, the hair on my arms, my eyebrows, my sideburns, hair on my upper lip, on my armpits, on my back—there was always someone who thought they were allowed to say something about the hair on my body. But that’s not what this week’s blog post is about. 

I want to talk about the hair on my head instead.

Our beauty standards are defined by culture. In the Surinamese-Hindustani culture I grew up in, one of the feminine beauty standards is to have long, luscious hair. These ideas of beauty are so deeply rooted it’s hard for me to pinpoint where they come from exactly, but I’m sure experts have mentioned the iconography and influences from Bollywood (which produces a rather homogenous version of a beautiful woman), South-Asian cultures, and that it also goes back to a colonial past (young, petite, fair skin, almond eyes, etc.). Decades later, I’m certain new influences have altered these standards up to a certain point. Wherever the standard may come from exactly, I know that it affected me growing up. 

As a child, I’ve always had extremely long hair. That was one of the defining physical features that set me apart—the girl with the really long, braided hair.

Here’s a picture of me. Cute, right. This picture captures me on my birthday, one of the few times that I asked my mother not to braid my hair for me. On most other days, my hair went down my back into a long braid. But I couldn’t find a proper picture of that, so this is the one you get. 

On average, my hair came down to the small of my back, sometimes even lower. 

I’m all smiles and happy in that picture. It was a nice day, and looking back at it, I feel happy too. But what you don’t see is how much I didn’t enjoy having such long hair. Sure, I liked that everyone else seemed to like my hair. That’s nice. But I didn’t like it when my mother combed my hair every morning because she had to get all the tangles out and that hurt really bad. The longer my hair was, the more tangles it had, the longer I had to sit and endure. My hair was also really heavy, and yeah… I just didn’t enjoy the experience of having long hair. 

Subconsciously, it taught me that other people’s opinion of me (of what’s considered beautiful) mattered more than my personal comfort (or desires). 

No wonder I turned into a people-pleaser. 

I grew up in a controlling home, so I didn’t have any autonomy over my hair until I turned fourteen. My mother finally allowed me to cut my hair somewhat shorter, after years of me complaining about the length. It was wonderful to finally have some say in the matter—you know, my own hair. And then around eighteen, I decided she wouldn’t get to make any decisions over my hair anymore (this did not go without conflict), and I had saved up money and gotten a haircut against her wishes. After that, I went shorter and shorter each time. 

One of the best feelings in the world for me is cutting my hair short. It’s absolutely connected to finally making a choice for myself. But my hair was also much lighter, and there was less tension on my head. It was rewarding to feel so free. 

My parents were never taught to give a lot of positive feedback or validation, so I rarely received it. When they saw my new hairdos, they were hesitant in their responses. I asked for their opinions (because yes, their opinion mattered to me—still does up to a certain point, I won’t pretend otherwise, I’m not fully freed from their hold on me yet). My mother managed to mumble something positive and my father’s go-to response was “What would you like me to say?”

Clearly, I couldn’t count on them for enthusiasm, so I managed that on my own because of that feeling… pfff, that taste of freedom. It was undeniable. 

Over time, I’ve experimented with different hair lengths, cuts, and even different colors (all the colors, please!!). It might seem like a minor thing, but it was an act of rebellion, a way of staying true to myself—whatever that means. There’s nothing quite like cutting my hair short and cutting all that (metaphorical) weight away. I know that long hair is still very entangled with ideas of femininity and beauty—not just in my culture—but there’s nothing more feminine or beautiful than that feeling of freedom. 

Freed from bullshit societal ideas and people’s control. 

Short hair, I really don't care.

Identity politics. I keep hearing that term in a negative context as if mainstream culture in Western countries isn’t identity politics in itself. It’s white culture (rooted in patriarchal, post-colonial, Christian, cis/heteronormative values—I’m sure I’m forgetting some systems here), no matter how much people try to deny white culture doesn’t exist. 

Their power reaches far. White culture upholds and even enforces social rules, the approved history, and one-sided knowledge. White culture educates members of its society, instills in us its norms and values, forms of communication, binary systems of categorization, and so on. Their power reaches all, even the marginalized who have to sacrifice parts of themselves to be accepted by the status quo. 

All these things make up culture, it also is the norm. 

I discovered a song the other day. Lullaby by Sabiyha. It’s a short and sweet song written by a British-Guyanese woman to honor her nani (grandmother). The song starts with her nani, who sings a lullaby to her grandchildren: “do do ba ba do do, baba want to do do.”

When I heard her nani’s words, I was surprised. For over thirty years, I thought that lullaby was just a song my mother and grandmother sang (although with slight linguistic differences), just a song they had made up. I didn’t realize the lullaby was part of our cultural heritage, sung by Indo-Caribbean grandmothers and mothers around the world. Then the music starts, Sabiyha repeats the lullaby, and I teared up.

I experienced a whirlwind of emotions. I felt so deprived. I felt so connected. We don’t have mass media to represent us, telling us this is you, this is your culture, this is your norm. Growing up in the Netherlands and with American influences, I’ve never seen the Indo-Caribbean experience represented. Not on television, not in the movies, not in books, not in music. 

However, I was taught Dutch lullabies through books and school and English lullabies through the media. Common knowledge I gained of these specific cultures early on in my life. But I only randomly found out about this Indo-Caribbean lullaby, decades late. Sure, I knew that lullaby was mine, part of me, definitely, but I thought I was alone in that. The lullaby had been an isolated experience, something shared between my sister, my mother, my nani, and me. Just as meaningful, of course. But learning that the lullaby was part of a communal experience beyond my household was another reminder of how early on marginalization happens, and how much generational wealth I might have missed out on. 

Our stories, our history, our culture is hidden, forgotten, or unknown. Erasure is also part of the dominant, white culture. At least in Western countries. 

Sure, in part that’s also because we have oral (hi)stories. We need people who honor and focus on certain aspects of their (marginalized) identity and connect that to the masses. More and more, I notice scholars, creators, artists, writers, individuals who are putting their energy into revealing our history and reclaiming our culture. Since our stories aren’t easily accessible through books or mass media, people have turned to the Internet and social media for archives through photos, videos, writing, podcasts. 

It’s a new dawn, one I’m proud to be part of by sharing my own stories… but also by sharing that of others. If you’re interested in learning more about Indo-Caribbean culture, or if you want to understand (y)our (hi)story, then I recommend the hard work, the intelligence, and wealth found in the following online archives, communities, and websites: 

• The Cutlass Podcast: A progressive podcast and platform dedicated to the Indo-Caribbean community and descendants of indentureship. 

• Coolie Women: An archival project that honors women of indentured heritage throughout history. The page also offers a list of resources as an accessible starting point for those who are interested in learning more. 

• Hindostaans en Queer: Online platform that creates content and representation for and by Surinamese-Hindustani queers and their allies. 

• Jahajee Sisters: A survivor-centered gender justice organization for Indo-Caribbean New Yorkers. They aim to end violence through healing, organizing, and art activism. They host educational events and initiatives. 

• Queer x Indenture: A series that center the role of queerness, gender, sexuality in (post-)indenture stories.

• Brown Girls Dissent: A platform founded on solidarity, liberation, expression, and equality to explore the intersectionality of race, gender, and identity. They are committed to diversity and inclusivity.

• The Shakta Oracle: A Shakta Diaspora Daayini who offers spiritual healing through their reclaimed lens to BIPOC. 

• Hïvan Community: A culturally sensitive platform that supports girls and women within the Surinamese-Hindustani community on their way to emancipation. 

• Sarnami Bol: Online account that teaches younger generations (about) a variation of our heritage language. 

• The Brown Girl Diary: Nonprofit organization cultivating and collaborating with Indo-Caribbean women worldwide to create representation of our culture, identity, and experience. 

• Indo-Caribbean Women: A community space that focuses on the improvement of the sexual health of Indo-Caribbean women (including cis/trans women, non-binary, and femme folks). 

• Jore: An online magazine that celebrates and amplifies diaspora voices of South Asians, and hopes to inspire them to embrace authenticity.

There's so many more! We’re not homogenous, we’re a melting-pot of disparate rhythms and ideas spread across the world. Just within the Indo-Caribbean community, you'll find so much diversity and yet there's so much that unites us too... like the lullaby. I hope this small overview can serve as a cornerstone of generational wealth and cultural beauty. Of course, don’t forget to listen to Sabiyha’s “Lullaby.”

April 2021. It’s been over a year since we’ve been dealing with COVID-19. Life was hard enough before we had a worldwide pandemic on our hands. But for over a year, it’s been even more limiting with social distancing and curbed interactions, partial to full lockdowns, and even curfews. Today our world is different. 

It’s only normal that there are psychological consequences. Throughout the year, I’ve noticed a lot of my friends dealing with anxiety and fatigue. The media is full of horrible and disappointing news. Getting through the winter was especially hard this year. Then there are external stressors like work, school, and personal relationships—all these facets of life are all burdened by the strain of COVID-19. 

It’s pretty tough right now, so I think you deserve to cut yourself some slack. 

If you haven’t yet, now’s the time. Be kind to yourself. With this blog post, I want to offer you five different ways to reduce your stress, deal with anxiety, and give yourself some breathing space. It really sucks that things are no longer the way it was before, and it’s also ok if everything isn’t functioning the way you’d like it to, because our world today is different. 

So, then, what can you do? A lot!

1. Take a break 

Sounds easy right? But it’s implementing a boundary, whether that’s aimed at yourself or someone else, and that requires conscious effort and lots of practice. Take inventory of your life—how are you feeling, why are you feeling that way, what is it connected to? Found the stressor? Try to take a break from it. The stressor can be personal, professional, educational, social, online, mental, physical, etc. There are so many aspects of our life that can affect us, and it’s ok to take a break from any of them, no matter what lessons society has taught you. 

• Tired of constantly looking at your screen? Take a phone/technology/social media break. You decide the rules. 1 day without. 1 week without. 2 hours per day/week limit. You don’t need to produce/perform/be present for anyone.

• Overwhelmed by the many wonderful people in your life who want to socialize? Communicate your needs and take a break. You’ll have more of yourself to give to others after you’ve given what you need to yourself first.

• Burned out by the stress of work? Discuss your situation with your supervisor and see what can be done. In the meantime, maintain strict working hours. Don’t work after your time is up. Keep the personal and professional separate. 

Clearly, taking a break isn’t as easy as it sounds. I’m very aware of that too. But if that’s something your body and mind are communicating to you, then at least listen. That’s the first step. 

2. Break it down 

Overwhelmed by work, school, or a project? You’ve got so much on your plate, and you don’t know where to start? Need something to be perfect, but everything you come up with in your mind tells you it’s the opposite? Thrive off a bit of pressure, but now it’s too much pressure? 

Yeah, those things are really rough. And starting is often the hardest part, especially if there are a million things that need to be done, but you’re not doing any of them. That’s a cycle, one that prevents you from taking necessary actions and keeps you trapped in feelings of shame and guilt. 

Instead of looking at the bigger picture, try to focus on how you can break down your project into small tasks. What is it that you can do right now? Pick that one thing, and concentrate on that. All the other stuff unfortunately won’t happen just because you can’t stop worrying about it (or try not to think about it as a result). That’s anxiety at work. So what if you’re not working hard or fast or whatever enough? So what if you’re not this or that? Is that a fair and honest assessment of the reality you’re living in, or is it an unrealistic and unkind narrative that your brain is feeding you?

You’re trying. You’re reading this article because you want solutions. You’re doing your best. It’s enough. You are enough. 

The small steps matter. You are in control of what you can do right now—so, what is that?

3. Invest in self-care

You can’t be on all the time. I know we live in a capitalist world that expects you to, especially with the rise of social media, but that’s bullshit. You’re a human being, and you need to rest. So, do things that calm you down, that center you, or that bring you happiness. 

There’s a difference between active and passive relaxation, and you absolutely need both (at least I do!). Though I have the hardest time with active relaxation. Ironically, it’s so much work. But it’s exactly the kind of work that will make you feel better (since active relaxation counters the stressors your nervous system has to deal with on a daily basis). You’ll be helping your body and mind fight off the stress. You’re basically a warrior. That’s pretty epic. Here are a few examples of active relaxation:

• Go for a walk in nature

• Work out (yoga, boxing, etc.)

• Meditate or regulate your breathing

• Sing along loudly (!) to your favorite songs 

• Have a dance party for one
  

However, if you find that your energy is so low that you can’t commit to active relaxation, then forgive yourself. It’s ok. It’s more important to listen to what your body and mind are communicating to you and respecting that. So if that’s fatigue or low energy, respect that too. You can absolutely enjoy passive relaxation. I do that all the time. A good balance between active and passive forms of relaxation helps me from feeling too overwhelmed by internal and external stressors. I just have to be mindful of my needs (therapeutic writing helps with that). Here are some examples of passive relaxation:

• Snuggle a pet

• Paint your nails

• Water your plants

• Watch your favorite TV-show

• Take a hot shower or bath

4. Reframe the message

By using positive affirmations you can go against the messages your brain is sharing with you. Tell yourself that you deserve time and rest to recharge, that saying no helps you show up for yourself and protects your energy (which is precious, since you’ve so little of it), that you are allowed to manage your stress through relaxation, that you are in control of your emotions and that they are not in control of you. Repeat these out loud and to yourself:

“I deserve time to rest and recharge.” 

“When I say no, I am showing up for myself and protecting my energy.” 

“My needs matter too.” 

“I am allowed to manage my stress through relaxation.” 

“I am in control of my emotions, even when they feel overwhelming.” 

5. Therapeutic Writing

Instead of going against the messages in your head, you can hold space for those voices, knowing they don’t define or control you! Affirmations can help you in the moment when you’re aware of distorted thoughts. But by using therapeutic writing you can take charge of the narrative in your head, acknowledge the incorrect messages and unkind voices, understand where they might come from, and reframe them to what you actually need. 

Therapeutic writing is a powerful tool to understand your needs, allow self-compassion, and give yourself more breathing space. Through continued practice, you’ll feel calmer and more in control. 

Try the quiz to find out which therapeutic writing style might fit you best, with free writing prompts at the end! Or join the therapeutic writing workshop if you’re ready to take the next step in your personal journey of empowerment. Also available in Dutch.

Ok. Final part. If I’m writing about trust issues, then I also have to mention my mother. She raised me. My father was also present in my life, but not emotionally involved. He worked hard day in and out to provide for his family, and when he was home he got to emotionally check out, and relied on my mother to take care of business with the children. It’s a common story, right. 

So, my mother raised me. She was the good guy. She was the bad guy. She was all the guys. She was the one who showed up for me in her own way, and she was usually the one who denied me.

She was the one whom I usually headed butts with because she was there. 

My mother raised me pretty conservatively, holding on to ideas and traditions that she was raised with, not agreeing with the White Dutch culture that I was also growing up in. Manai ka bolie (“What will people think?”) is a sentiment that I’ve heard come out of her mouth countless times. She was very controlling and didn’t respect boundaries (listening in on my phone calls, making me feel bad for wanting to be with my friends over family, etc.). As long as she could control me, everything was fine. If I talked back or didn’t listen, then that resulted in conflict. My mother was never taught to regulate her emotions in a healthy way, so she’d lash out at me for behavior that didn’t require such a big response. For example, as a tween, when I came home from an Afghan friend’s house and had put mehndi on my hand for the first time. It looked so pretty, and I loved it, and I felt connected to my roots. My mother shouted at me because according to her, mehndi was only supposed to be put on as a marital ritual. She blamed me for doing a bad thing. I felt bad, for upsetting my mother over what I thought was supposed to be a fun moment. Her reaction was a lack of knowledge and lack of emotional maturity on her part. Shouting and screaming is her second nature, and she’s claimed she can’t unlearn that (but let’s be real, she didn’t want to put in the effort). 

Growing up, I really resented my mother for how she limited me, how she tried to instill fear in me, for shaming me, for blaming me for things that were not within my control or understanding, for always shouting at me instead of talking to me, for not letting me think for myself. She’d conjure up all these situations of how the people I chose to have in my life would or could endanger me. Ludicrous, I thought. I trusted my friends. People aren’t out to hurt me, I’d argue (ironically she was the one hurting me with this behavior).

A common thought pattern I’ve had in my head about her is that I just don’t understand her logic. 

Her logic wasn’t rooted in reality, it was rooted in fear and distorted perception. Clearly, I didn’t know that was my mother’s trauma speaking to me, controlling me, and denying me. Why would I?—I was a child. Time, therapy, and (unfortunately) self-awareness afforded me more insight. Not just into my mother, but also into myself: I’ve twisted reasoning too. I’ve distorted perception too. Her trauma, her paranoia, I inherited those in the form of depression, anxiety, people-pleasing… and so many trust issues. It’s why I’m emotionally distant, it’s why I keep people at a distance if I can (except for a safe few), it’s why I’m closed off and closeted, because I’ve been hurting for so long, and it’s just easier to check out than to continuously endure and endure. And be in pain. I can’t be in pain all the time. That’s generational trauma. That’s coping mechanisms. That’s surviving. There are probably other matters that I’ll still have to unpack at some point in my life, when I’ve more space for it. 

After listening to my mother’s stories of traumatic experiences she’s endured (though she’d deny that they’re traumatic, because of a lack of understanding and she’s fine now—she’s not), I understand it’s a combination of her PTSD, her anxiety, her paranoia, and her emotional immaturity. She did her best, and her best was very limited because she didn’t know any better and there weren’t any acceptable recourses for her.

I’m not saying that makes her behavior ok

Nothing makes her behavior towards me ok. She may have been a victim in many situations, but she wasn’t one in her relationship with me. Still, I understand where it comes from, and it gives me a teensy bit more patience with her, more empathy for her, as long as she keeps trying to respect my boundaries. Then I’m willing to try too. It’s a two-sided relationship after all. 

I guess in that sense I have somewhat internalized the “Family is everything” narrative too, just limited to my nuclear family. I wouldn’t want to lose my parents, not even their conditional love (as fucked up as that is), not even in spite of everything, not even with all the anger and resentment and pain that I’ve felt (and sometimes continue to feel). 

I know that my parents are trying in their own flawed way to meet me halfway, and that counts. So, yeah, that’s where I’m at. Trust issues, and all. 

As I said, there’s still a lot to unpack. 

Oh, and for the sake of equality, I’ll point out that my father didn’t come out scot-free either. I resented him too. He let it happen. He was a parent too, but he took a backseat and let it happen. I’m willing to have forgiveness, patience, and acceptance in my heart for both of them. 

That’s the way I choose to move forward right now, free(r) from their emotional shackles.

Last week I wrote about how my family gave me trust issues. I briefly wrote about how my experience in brown (or Surinamese-Hindustani) spaces wasn’t a safe one for me. In part because of my messed up Family and the destabilizing formative years. But there’s another layer to it:

I’m bisexual.

I didn’t know any queer people when I was growing up, aside from the occasional gossip by Family on someone’s (not our) Family member being that way or what I learned in mostly white spaces. But I knew I wasn’t straight. 

For a while, my father would bring me these Veronica CD’s with top-40 pop music. On the cover of those CD’s were scarcely clothed women, and when you removed the CD, they’d be wearing even less. Clearly, I was not the target audience for this, but my parents had no problem with it… and neither did I. That was my bi awakening, if you will, because the way I looked at those women made me question whether that was “normal.” 

Once, when I was feeling very brave, I asked a cousin I sorta trusted whether it made me a lesbian if I thought women were beautiful. I worded it ambiguously enough so she wouldn’t actually think anything more, just a general appreciator of feminine beauty, and I was relieved when she didn’t. She laughed and said no, and I decided to just let it be. 

I didn’t trust for my truth to be accepted and respected within the Family. Not when I’d already been told all the things that were wrong with queer people. Many, many hurtful comments that I won’t repeat here.

I couldn’t speak my truth, but I could stand up to that bullshit. I could tell them that they were wrong for thinking those awful things. I could try to make them see reason, so they would see queer(/black/muslim—because bullshit ideas go hand in hand) people like normal people. My naïveté. I’d gotten so used to fighting back verbally, to having endless discussions. I had more energy for those when I was a teenager and that felt like my only form of resistance that would still ensure my personal and some emotional safety. 

As I got older, I realized they enjoyed it. They certainly believed what they were saying, but they also enjoyed that I engaged with them. It’s a special kind of dehuminization when you’re closeted and having those discussions. Then, a Family member gets this amused look on their face… coz they’ve said a thing that they know I will react to. Ha ha! A sparring partner. Natasja will definitely say something about that. You should be a lawyer! You should be a politician! Very amusing! Much fun! 

Not for me. 

Fortunately, I could be myself around my friends. The people I chose to be with. I dared to open myself up to them, and as a teenager I told all my closest friends (brown and white) about my sexuality. With them I felt safe enough. I embraced them, and rejected my extended Family. If I could, I avoided Family gatherings. It caused a lot of conflict between my parents and I. Despite their trauma at the hands of the same Family, they still wanted to be on good terms with them. I get it. They were the only people they had in foreign land. And Family was everything.

But I didn’t feel safe, and I didn’t agree with their (traditional, racist, sexist, Islamophobic, and homophobic) way of thinking, and I didn’t always feel like dealing with that. 

I couldn’t exactly communicate that to my parents. Definitely not the queer part. It’s not like they were any better when it came to that mindset. (There’s been a learning curve for them, and they’ve definitely improved, but there’s still a long way to go.) 

So I remained as distant as I could be from Family, physically wasn’t always within my control, but mentally—hard yes. Even at gatherings, if I could I would separate myself. I’d just hang back by myself or with maybe one other person, and I’d entertain myself. I must’ve seemed like quite the disinterested loner. I was. On rare occasions I’d have myself a good time. 

A recurring comment I’d get from relatives was: “Ah, there she is. No longer glued to her computer.” A device that connected me to friends all around the world, friends who understood, friends with whom I could talk about whatever. 

Friends I felt safe with. 

I’m fortunate that I at least had this experience in my late teens. It opened up my world a bit, and I learned more about queer people. And with the rise of social media it’s gotten even better! The online community, especially the brown community, or Indo-Caribbean community, is so connected and supportive and outspoken. I’m so glad kids today have that. I’m glad I have it now too! I’m meeting new people, with similar experiences, and I hope to keep on learning, growing, and sharing. 

I’m so grateful for that. I love the solidarity amongst brown people, amongst immigrants. And I’m all for solidarity within the community, but we also need to be real about a lot of the pain coming from inside the community. For women. For queer people. For those who don’t (want to) conform. It’s not safe for us. I was never able to bond with Family, and the community in extension, not when so much of myself had to remain hidden so I could have conditional love and an illusion of safety. 

And I know I’m not alone in that. I know that’s still a reality for many out there. 

As a matter of fact, it’s still for me. 

Despite what the Western narrative demands, I’m 31 and I haven’t come out to my parents. The amount of pressure that I’ve felt to meet the expectations my parents put on me, especially after all the hardship they endured for me (the guilt that stems from that, fair or not), in a culture where Family is everything, and continuously being dismissed for my wants and needs, for my individuality—all these things have made it extremely complicated for me to open up to my parents. On many levels, not just about my sexuality. It’s been a long journey, and being closeted has definitely contributed to my depression and anxiety (that’s a major understatement), but like many things right now… I’m working on it. One day, and one thing, at a time.

I’ll get there.

On a more hopeful note, I told my younger sister about my sexuality last year. She is, without a doubt, the one person in our Family that I've come to trust wholeheartedly. So, yes, I’ve got trust issues, but I also know she’s got my back. And I’ve got hers.

Family didn’t take that away from me. 

I didn’t let them.

There are many reasons why I have trust issues, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that I don’t feel safe around my own people, in my own community, and that’s because of Family. I don’t think that’s talked about enough. 

Sure, we all know about judgmental aunties... but let me tell you about mine.

Before I get into it, I need to provide some context. You may already know that I was born in Suriname, and I arrived in the Netherlands as a small child. My mom and I left my adja and adji’s house (my father’s parents), and my father would follow a year later. Once he arrived, he had to find steady employment before we could get our own home. The time between all that was spent with Family. My mother and I lived with my father’s oldest sister for a few months, then we were taken to another sister of his for more months, and eventually we moved in with my mother’s sister, where we stayed the longest. I went to three different preschools. We traveled most weekends too, so my mother could see her (other) sisters. 

Basically, I’ve moved around a lot. 

That, in itself, can be rough on a child, but my Family decided to be extra. I often joke I could write plots to dramatic Indian tv-shows or Telenovela’s with the shit I’ve seen happen. But for now I’ll just limit it to a few incidents to highlight how I became distrustful of Family. 

Let’s go back to the destabilizing period when I was staying at an aunt’s with my mother. We lived in her house together with her husband, and their two sons. My older cousins. Their grandmother (on their dad’s side) visited them often, and one time she brought gifts with her. Three gifts for three children living in that house. When she handed a gift to me, I didn’t expect it. She wasn’t my Family. I wasn’t one of her grandchildren. But she was kind to me, nonetheless. A small gesture for a small child, but with immense value. The gift was simple. She’d given all of us drinking glasses with dinosaurs painted on it. Mine had sauropods. Long-necked dino’s—my favorite kind (the coincidence!) because they ate plants, not meat… so that meant they wouldn’t eat me, and we could be friends!! 

I guess I was in need of a friend. 

My feelings about sauropods are based on the children’s movie The Land Before Time (Platvoet en zijn vriendjes). Set in the age of the dinosaurs, during a great famine, Littlefoot, together with his mother and grandparents, the only ones left of their herd, are forced to travel to the Great Valley. When he’s still a child his mother gives her life to protect him from danger. He’s alive, but he’s separated from his family. He’s not alone. He has a friend. Together they try to find the Great Valley, guided by his mother’s voice to hopefully return to their families. Along the way, they make more friends, and the group has to survive together. Looking back at it now, I was projecting hard. I do love the found family trope, and Littlefoot’s reunion with his grandparents. So, you see, that drinking glass with the sauropods, a small kindness by someone else, was a reminder that there would be a happy ending. It was an example of friendship and love. And it was mine. 

Until it wasn’t.

I was attached to that glass, which my aunt could see. I was a child, I wasn’t subtle. So, strange rules were imposed on when I could use it. A glass!! She was very strict about it. I wasn’t allowed to drink anything when I was eating, not even if I was thirsty, only when she allowed it. And when I left that place, relocated with my mother to stay at another aunt’s place, my aunt claimed that she had lost the glass. 

How does one lose a piece of glass? You might break it. You might conceal it. But lose it? In your own house? The one that happened to be given to me after policing how often I use it? Come on. I’m not buying it. 

I guess the glass wasn’t mine to keep. And I could do nothing about that. When I cried to my mother, she tried to console me. But beyond that she was powerless too. She couldn’t accuse anyone when we were dependent on the charity of Family. They were taking us into their homes after we arrived in the Netherlands. And this was just one of the sacrifices we made. 

Also, it was only a drinking glass. So I get my mom’s actions. We were in survival mode. 

Still, I can’t believe so much pain is wrapped around this memory. But I wasn’t just denied the glass (or bodily autonomy for that matter), I was given lessons on how little I mattered. How little my mother mattered. That the things we cared about weren’t ours to keep. We had nothing except for what Family would let us have. This wasn’t love. I knew that much as a child. And it also didn’t create love in my heart for my aunt. It brought up walls, and created distance. 

Other things happened in that household too. A teddy bear I was given was ruined by my cousins for their entertainment. When we’d walk back to their house from school, they’d start running so I couldn’t keep up with them. All by myself, afraid, in a foreign town, in a foreign land. They found my tears amusing. I imagine I was a nuisance to them, a disruption in their upbringing. They were one in mine too. 

There weren’t any consequences for their behavior. 

Survival mode. More walls, more distance. 

Let’s zoom out again. I’m Surinamese-Hindustani, Indo-Caribbean if you will, and the way I’ve experienced my culture is that it revolves around being perfect and superior. It’s highly critical and righteous. People love to point fingers while they’ve got skeletons in their own closet. As long as you don’t see them, they will point. There’s so much trash-talking, and image matters: How successful you are at life, how much you have, how good you are. All these forms of control and policing, and they’re enforced even more for women.

When you do well, people build you up. But they lie in wait, biding their time, finding the right moment to tear you down. Female cousins pretended to be nice to my face only to talk about me behind my back. That was another important lesson for me. 

The biggest snakes are in your own nest. 

More walls, more distance. I couldn’t even confide in my peers, save for two, and even that was only to a certain degree. An added layer to this is that I’m not straight. I’m bisexual. I’ve known this since I was eight years old. And I wasn’t able to tell a Family member about it. There was always that wall, firmly rooted. I never felt safe enough to do so. Not when the majority had homophobic views that they freely expressed (and, yup, those definitely were accompanied by sexist and racist views). I couldn’t take that on. I couldn’t bear it. 

So I hid myself, and I fortified my walls. 

Now let’s fast-forward a few years. I’ve many older cousins, and when they were in their teens, I got front row seats to the manipulation and shaming they went through at the hands of certain aunties. Under the guise of being cool, she would offer them cigarettes and alcohol. They’d accept, because that was pretty cool and experimental. Later on that aunt would offer it to me too—forcibly—but I would say “no” repeatedly. Had to, for her to hear it. Plus, I had “the excuse of asthma” that usually stopped her from shoving a cigarette in my mouth. My aunt (and her husband, she wasn’t alone in this) would sneakily offer us stuff during Family parties, or she’d invite us over to her place where the teens could just be chill and cool, and have a good time. By the time the smoking and drinking had become a regular thing for my teenage cousins, a habit they did on their own too, that same aunt would go to their parents and inform them of their child’s bad behavior as the concerned aunt that she was. 

What kind of fuckery is that. 

I could write so much more on this, but I’ll limit myself to these two incidents for now. The first one I experienced as an insider, the second I got to observe as an outsider (and had therefore learned to not walk into those traps). Although both incidents are very different (the circumstances and the degree of fuckery), both illustrate the power dynamics, deceit and manipulation, and how those aunties just got away with their shit. 

And so I survived the best way I knew how. I built walls and hid inside. I kept Family, and people somehow related to them, at a distance. 

I kept myself safe.

As an Indo-Caribbean person with both Guyanese and Surinamese heritage, it’s been really interesting to contrast and compare the two different (South-)Asian diasporas. Both my Nani (maternal grandmother) and Adji (paternal grandmother) are from Guyana. 

My Adji (and her brother) moved in with her aunt in Suriname after the death of her mother. She was only a child then. Years later, she married a Surinamese man, fully integrating in Surinamese culture. It was only after my Adji’s death that I got to know about her (half-) siblings. Indo-Guyanese relatives spread over North America. I learned that my Adji’s ancestral line is also Madrassi, and that her maternal grandparents spoke a version of Tamil. That was really exciting news, because I have very limited information on my heritage, so I love knowing more even if that only means piecing together tidbits here and there. 

Even with all the limited information, I’ve noticed that we’re losing our language.

Most of my insights into the Guyanese diaspora comes from my mother’s side of the family. My Nani moved to Suriname at 18 after she married my Nana. She’d spent her formative years in Guyana, and she came from a more tight-knit family than my Adji. When it comes to language, my Nani would speak Guyanese (an English-based creole language) and Guyanese Hindustani (a dialect of Bhojpuri, mixed with other influences) with her family. Half half, as she would put it. Nani had also learned a bit of Hindi through school and through her mother, who also read stories of the Ramayana. 

The few times I had met my Guyanese side of the family, which had been in both Suriname and Guyana, they had only spoken in Guyanese. It wasn’t until I was 18 and visited my family in New York, after they had all migrated, and I met my Nani’s sister for the first time that I heard someone from Guyana speaking in Guyanese Hindustani. She looked and sounded exactly like my Nani, whom I hadn’t seen in years. 

I really enjoyed spending time with my Nani’s sister, it was almost like spending time with my own Nani. It felt so much like home. The way she talked, the way she looked, and even the food she cooked was similar to what I was used to. At the same time, it stood out to me that my aunts, my mother’s cousins, didn’t speak the language, only English and Guyanese. And the generation after that, my generation, they definitely didn’t speak Hindustani. 

If I compare this to the Surinamese counterpart, based solely on my experiences, then Sarnami Hindustani (dialect of Bhojpuri but with different external influences) is still actively spoken by most generations currently living in Suriname. In fact, it’s the third-most spoken language after Dutch and Sranan Tongo. In the Netherlands, however, this is a different story. My generation, usually first generation Surinamese-Hindustani born in the Netherlands, has a great loss of their heritage language or mother’s tongue too. 

I wasn’t born in the Netherlands, but I was a young child when I came here. Like my Adji, I lost parts of my heritage too. In my case, my language. I’d gone from speaking Sarnami Hindustani to speaking Dutch in a matter of months. This loss is known as language attrition (my academic background in literature and linguistics is serving a purpose! Yay!). 

Now I only passively know my mother’s tongue. My parents have always spoken it to me, so I still understand it, and if I put in some effort I would be able to speak it too (albeit with grammatical errors and a cringeworthy Dutch accent). There’s a part of me that wants to relearn it again, as a way to keep my heritage alive. 

Though I’ll be honest, the reason why I haven’t yet is because the culture I grew up in doesn’t really allow for imperfections or mistakes. Not even when it’s something as sad as loss of language. Any time I tried to say a word or sentence here and there, it was met with patronizing amusement. Not exactly motivating me to keep trying. At the same time, I have fond memories of my 12-year old self attempting to speak Sarnami Hindustani with my Nani during my 6-week stay in Suriname. She didn’t laugh, she just listened. It was nice. 

Fortunately, due to the rise of social media, our language has become more accessible to younger generations, with accounts like @sarnamibol: three Surinamese-Hindustani women who took matters into their own hands and chose to create more awareness for Millennials and Generation Z. One Insta post at a time, younger generations are carving out our own spaces, and we’re teaching each other. 

I think that’s really revolutionary and beautiful. 

Bahoet accha hai 😌

Note: This post may contain affiliate links, meaning I get a commission if you decide to make a purchase through my links, at no cost to you. Please read my disclosure for more info.

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On a more lighthearted note than usual (since writing about emotional topics requires me to dig deep and be naked in my vulnerability), I wanted to share something that has been contributing to my days in a positive way. By now, you may know that I love journals. I don’t journal as intensely anymore as I did when I was a teenager, but I still try to write in one whenever I can. I’ve three journals, in fact, all for different writing intentions. The first exclusively focuses on the many things I did or experienced that brought me some form of happiness, the second journal is for ranting, descriptions of situations, and important notes about (the improvement of) my mental health. The third journal, the one I am sharing with you today, is actually a planner for my daily/weekly to-do lists. 

Goodbye to the days of hundreds notes on my phone or random to-do scribbles, and hello to the 52 Lists Planner!

The journal was brought to my attention by Jas from Jas Being Jas during one of our weekly writing sessions. She showed me her planner, and it looked so pretty, so colorful. It instantly had my attention. Turns out it’s also really useful! I like winning. The 52 Lists Planner is undated, ready to use whenever so you’re not stuck with the start of a school or calendar year. It’s made with monthly, weekly, and daily planning in mind. But before you get to the planning, there’s a section on intention setting and having realistic goals, which was a great reminder for me to be kind to myself in the expectations I create for myself.

Then, each section or month opens with a “month at a glance” where you can highlight important days of the month, with enough space to write whatever you need. Next up is “the week ahead” where you write down your tasks and intentions, followed by a daily overview with 3 top priorities, and a to-do list or schedule. There’s always a blank space at the end of the section for additional writing.

That’s the practical stuff.

The planner also encourages you to be mindful by asking you to reflect on your month (with prompts), on your week (by checking your mood), and on your day (with questions). You’ll also find a nice little treat at the back of the planner, where there’s space for projects. You can write down the project name, the starting date, the due date, there’s space to brainstorm, and to list all the steps you want to take. Plus, the option to scrap or check off the steps. 

This is my kinda planner. I love the mindset that it was made with (i.e. one step at a time, focus on intentions not goals). Not only that, the rich colors and pretty art throughout make me happier too. Having said that, I’m used to spending max. €5 on pretty notebooks and using them as a journal, so when I saw the price of the planner I had to think about it for a minute. Would it be worth the investment? I’ve been using it for over two months now, and I consistently write in it, so yes. For me, it was. 

It’s full and more diverse. It creates space and quiet in my head, which I need. I could do with less thinking sometimes. I’ve already told all my friends about my planner, and now I’m sharing this tool of growth and organization on the blog, because maybe it could be useful for you too. 

Ever so often, I’m going to write more about lighthearted topics, because there’s so much I love that I’d like to share with you, and I wouldn’t want my blog to solely be about my pain. This is a place of healing, a place of moving forward. This is how I do that, planner included.

Find the 52 Lists Planner on bookdepository. (This is an affiliate link, meaning, at no additional cost to you, I will earn a commission if you click through and make a purchase.)

If there’s something I struggle with it’s unlearning people-pleasing behavior. It’s so prevalent in the Indo-Caribbean (Surinamese-Hindustani) culture I’m from. But I also grew up in Dutch society, which has more direct and down-to-earth attitudes. This means I have a bicultural upbringing, and that there’s already a tension in different norms and values. This tension runs deep, because culture influences our behavior, the way we see the world, and what we think and feel. 

This influence of culture might not always be noticeable to a member of the culture, but since I have the blessing (and curse) of growing up bicultural—with the clash of Indo-Caribbean and Dutch culture front and center—I can say I’ve definitely noticed some differences. 

In my Indo-Caribbean culture people don’t want to say no because they’ll be considered rude, or they believe that they can always help someone else out. Give all you can, it’s not about taking. Those are the Hindu teachings: The principles of dharma and karma (an extremely simplified explanation: it’s about having compassion for others and understanding that every action has a reaction, which can also carry into next lives). That’s all wonderful, but this seems to have created a culture of people pleasers who are not assertive and have bad boundaries. At least, in my experience. 

I’ve seen so many examples where people abuse the kindness of others, because they know that the other person is unable to say no. Asking someone to work for free for long periods of time, asking to borrow money from someone to buy a car while that person is mourning the death of a loved one and otherwise engaged with Hindu mourning rituals, asking someone for a favor repeatedly that they know doesn’t actually benefit the person. 

It’s unacceptable to me. Inconsiderate. But when I bring up these moments to the people pleasers (since they are responsible themselves, even if they can’t say “no”) the response I usually get is that they couldn’t refuse. So, truly, their “yes” most likely meant “no” but it wasn’t respected. If I continue questioning that logic, the mindset is that they’re doing good by giving and they will be rewarded in life for it. If not now, then later. Bending over backward for others, however, while you suffer and create negative situations in your relationships is just bad boundaries. It’s not kindness or compassion, not when you let other people walk all over you. This attitude of martyring yourself for others really doesn’t serve you. Not right now, and if you don’t learn from it… then how will it serve you in the next life? 

What will you gain from it exactly? Resentment? Stress and pressure? Dishonesty? Bad relationships? Bad boundaries? Depression?

All the above, in my case!  

There’s a limit, right. I’m not saying don’t be compassionate and don’t help others. I’m saying… also help yourself, also be compassionate to yourself. The more you give to yourself, the more you can give to others. So sometimes that means saying “no”—to yourself and to others. 

It’s more complicated, however. Although hardly anyone I know from my culture is able to say “no,” when they do say it… it’s sometimes out of politeness and with the expectation that the other person will keep insisting so they can change their “no” into a “yes”. 

There’s a difference between High Context and Low Context cultures. Let me put my BA in European Studies to good use. In Low Context cultures information is communicated more directly and explicitly, usually through just the words. The communication doesn’t require much more context. The Dutch definitely fall into this category. With High Context cultures there’s much more to the message than the words a person communicates. There’s implicit information that’s not said and needs to be inferred from context (the type of situation, the non-verbal language of a person, unwritten rules for desired behavior, etc.). Indo-Caribbean culture fits better into this category.

In other words, sometimes in Indo-Caribbean culture “no” means “yes.”

It’s been really interesting navigating this cultural pattern. For example, I remember in pre-covid times, on my birthday, family members had come over and they had to leave early. I wasn’t planning on cutting the cake until in the evening, so I hadn’t yet. But I told them: “Oh, I can cut the cake right now. It’s not a problem!” They politely refused, so I accepted their response. 

I had already said it wasn’t not an inconvenience and I wasn’t going to force them. But my mom nudged me, and told me to cut the cake anyway. I was being rude for not insisting they take a piece with them, because they did want it, they just didn’t want to seem rude. Apparently, they still felt that they’d be imposing even after I explicitly told them it wouldn’t be an imposition, and so they needed the insistence for their “no” to actually be allowed to be a “yes.” 

So, I ended up being the rude one. 

It’s fine. The older generation had a nice conversation among themselves about how the younger generation is so different from them. How the Dutch influence shows up in us. 

Since “no” is so complicated in Indo-Caribbean culture, I work hard on being more assertive and pointing out my boundaries. But as you can see… there’s cultural layers with different norms and values, different unwritten rules, and they aren’t always easy to navigate, especially not with a bicultural upbringing. 

Oh, this reminds me. When I was on vacation in Tokyo, I was seated in the metro and an elderly couple entered the compartment. I asked them if one of them wanted to have my seat. They both said “no.” Quite expressively! And the Dutch in me would just have accepted their answer, but the Indo-Caribbean in me got up and told them to sit down. They did, and thanked me profusely. 

Just goes to show you how much culture matters. Cross-cultural and/or bicultural communication is interesting and complicated… even for such a small but meaningful word as “no.”

The holidays are coming. Cue that Coca Cola Christmas soundtrack. Tis the season. Watch out. Look around. Something’s coming. Coming to town. Is it me? Did I watch too many horror movies, or does that seem sinister? You truly can’t escape Christmas. It’s everywhere. On the radio. On TV. In the shops and supermarkets. But it’s probably me. 

Anyway, it’s February, so we’re long past Christmas, but that means I’ve had enough time to reflect on how I spent that time last year. I’m not Christian. As far as religion goes, I grew up in a Hindu household, and I consider myself Hindu. We also celebrate Christmas. My parents even celebrated the holiday in Suriname. That’s the influence of Christianity and colonialism. 

Christmas is not celebrated in a religious capacity by us, of course. Instead, it’s about spending time together. Eating and drinking together. Exchanging gifts. Dooh dooh dooh... Always Coca Cola. You know, commercialization, and forced social interactions. Who doesn’t love those?! I swear I’m not bitter. I love receiving gifts, especially books. 

We have a Christmas tree, we decorate it with colorful items and pretty lights. I keep my decor pretty simple, and my parents are extravagant. More is more. Loud, and bright, and happy. The decorations and the fairy lights at home do elevate my spirits, especially when the days are shorter, colder, and darker in the winter. 

But Christmas is inescapable. I don’t know about how you experience the holiday, but for me there seems to be a lot of external social pressure and obligations. You have to show up, and it’s about having a good time. A lot of days are like that (birthdays to name one) but there’s such an insistence on sharing and caring with Christmas, with weeks of buildup, reminders of it wherever you go. 

Fixed dates are reserved for spending time with specific people. For me there’s Christmas Eve,  Christmas Day, Second Christmas Day (yup we have those in the Netherlands). Three days of back-to-back social gatherings that last the whole day/evening (sometimes both). It’s a lot. 

So, why am I writing about the holidays in February? Is it just to complain? Nah. There’s reflection, remember. 

I’ve always been someone who gets energy from social interactions, and once I reach my limit I need to recharge. But my energy level hasn’t been as high for over a decade, and I’m still coming to terms with that. Since I haven’t yet, that means I’ve often surpassed my limits, and I’m drained. That means most social interactions cost me energy nowadays. 

My wallet of emotional currency has been depleted. I’m broke. 

Not to be dramatic, but why not?! It’s a metaphor, and it’s true. Just go with it. 

Last Christmas I was mentally exhausted after two days of family time, so on the third day (December 26th) I was unable to commit to anything or anyone else. I retreated within myself. Fortunately for me, and every other Netflix subscriber, Bridgerton came out that day. An episode lasted a whole-ass hour, so I found the perfect way to sit back, relax, and recharge. 

Earn back my energy coins through self care. I love it.

I spent the following days reading books, and enjoying tv-shows. Just time with myself. A few quiet days to fill my wallet with enough coins to be emotionally present during New Year’s Eve, and have myself a good time. We ate, we drank, we sang karaoke, we watched the illegal fireworks. It was neat. 

It’s a silly complaint, right? I’ve so many people in my life who love me and want to spend time with me. I just don’t have a lot of energy coins. So I end up feeling guilty, because I’m a people pleaser who wants to spend time with loved ones, who doesn’t want to disappoint. But in doing so… I’m neglecting myself. I won’t be happy. Others won’t be happy (I mean, probably). And that way everyone ends up paying the price. And I’ll remain broke. 

Is there a lesson to take away from this? Yes! I was in a bad mood those days that I needed recharging, and I think that I could have handled that situation better—scratch that. I will handle it better next year. I’m going to set boundaries with myself and the people who want to see me. I will start early, months early, like the damn Christmas songs on the radio and the Santa Claus-themed candies in the supermarket, to give my loved ones the time to prepare because Holidays are coming. 

My first boundary will be only celebrating Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I’m no longer willing to do anything on the Second Christmas Day. That day is solely going to be about pajamas and movies (or hopefully season two of Bridgerton—I’m so here for Anthony’s story).

My second boundary will be to set a time limit per social event. Knowing there is a time limit, which others will be made aware of too, will hopefully help me opt out without feeling guilty. Maybe I won’t get rid of the guilt yet, but it will mean that I can be present and in the moment, and that I can leave and recharge, and not have to cough up more energy coins than I have. 

It’s more important to show up and be present, not the duration. Quality over quantity, in this case. No more forced interactions. With my boundaries in place, they can just be interactions. 

I would really like that. 

I suppose it may all seem silly. Maybe over a decade ago, when I was much younger and had more energy, I would’ve thought so too. But it’s not silly. It’s just where I’m at right now, and I’ve got to make that work. Since my energy is quite precious, I have to be precious about it.

The hard part will be communicating my needs to others, and possibly dealing with their disappointment. I’m still struggling when it comes to that. I have a tendency to take on people’s feelings, and I don’t know how to turn that off yet…

Maybe next Christmas I will have more clarity. For now, this will do.

Always Coca Cola.

When I was almost three years old, my mother and I got on a plane and crossed the Atlantic Ocean. We emigrated from Suriname (in South America) to the Netherlands (Europe). A year later, my father was able to join us. 

You see, moving is in my DNA. 

My ancestors relocated to British Guyana and the Dutch colony of Suriname. After the abolition of slavery (1833 in Guyana and 1863 in Suriname), former slaves obviously refused to work on plantations, so the British and the Dutch (let’s not forget about the French) found a new commodity: indentured laborers from Asia. Mostly from North India, in my case, though I can’t say that with absolute certainty since I’ve very limited information on my lineage. 

Unlike the British, the Dutch have an online database with personal information on Hindustani who immigrated to Suriname between 1873-1916. Through the database, I’ve learned some details about one maternal and one paternal ancestor. They were both women: 23 and 24 years old when they left their small villages in Uttar Pradesh. Whether they left willingly, I don’t know. Many Hindustani were tricked or kidnapped (at least into going to Guyana). Under the generous assumption that my ancestors left voluntarily, I can’t help but wonder what drove these young women to sign up for indentured servitude, and get on a ship that would take them to the other side of the world. I imagine it was the reality of disagreeable circumstances and the promise of certain (financial, emotional, physical) security—of a better tomorrow. 

I know that was the case for my parents’ cross-continental journey. 

The disagreeable circumstance was my father’s parental home, which my mother moved into after she married my father. They lived together with my grandparents, plus two of my uncles, their wives and children, and four of my aunts. Thirteen people in total. Coming into a household with an existing pecking order, with egos, and abuse was a traumatizing experience for my mother, and it drove my parents to the Netherlands. 

The promise of a better tomorrow came at the cost of a few sacrifices. My mother and I had to travel alone, our family incomplete without my father. We were poor, so we couldn’t afford our own place. Instead, we were able to stay with extended family. Over the course of almost two years, we lived with three different aunts and their household in three different cities. I went to three different preschools. 

My mom worked whatever odd job she could. She learned to take the train so she could visit her sisters. I have fond memories of taking train rides with her. Just the two of us. 

After the first year my father joined us in the Netherlands. He remained with a different aunt, separated from us. He took the first steady job that he could get, which was roofing. He’d gone from a farmer in Suriname to a roofer in the Netherlands. His body and mind were put to manual labor once more, for the sake of his family. 

The hard part was only seeing him on the weekends when he would visit us, because that meant he’d be leaving again. I remember feeling so alone even though I had my mother with me, even though I could see my father on the weekends. I was still stuck with people I didn’t want to be with.

I didn’t have a home. 

To say that it was a rough and destabilizing period would be an understatement. I don’t remember most of that time except for a few extra painful memories (older cousins teasing me, a gift from a great-aunt being withheld from me, an uncle slapping me for not being on school grounds after preschool). My biggest takeaway from it was that I felt alone and lost. I needed stability.

It might not come as a huge surprise to you, but I’m not a(n extended) family person. 

Unfortunately I come from a big family, and family was everything—despite whatever trauma they caused (intentional or not, who knows, but never acknowledged)—so I remained stuck to them even when my parents were able to afford a place of their own. 

My parents didn’t have anyone else in the Netherlands other than a portion of their family. So I get it. At least we had a place of our own. My father was working, my mother was working, and I continued with my preschool/primary education. We moved a few times within the same city, from one flat to another, until my parents were able to afford a mortgage and a house. The house I got to grow up in as a grade schooler and through half of my teens. 

Then, at fifteen, on a random day, my father told me we were moving to a completely new neighborhood without any preparation. Once again, without any say. I understand that as a child I won’t make the final choices, but being taken away from a place that had been my home for years without so much as a thought given to my needs… was a little disruptive. 

All my previously established experience with moving around and about functioned as some preparation: I had learned to adapt to new situations and people; I was interested in other cultures since I’d been an outsider in public and private spaces in the Netherlands; I’d become resilient and flexible. I was proud of how I had come out for the better because of my chaotic youth, so I managed. I settled into the new neighborhood. As a freshly-turned sixteen year old, I was not interested in the people there. I had my friends, I had high school. And soon enough, I’d gain more freedom to discover more of the world through college. 

Disagreeable circumstances and hope of a better tomorrow? That was definitely a part of it. As I got older, life at home became more unbearable for other reasons, so I chose an international bachelor’s degree with an obligatory exchange. My parents couldn’t say no if I had to leave the country (I mean, they sure tried, but they had to get over it). For my second bachelor’s it wasn’t a six-month stay abroad, but five years in a neighboring country. 

Does history repeat? Maybe. 

My ancestors probably ran away from or towards something. Did they outgrow their parents, their family, their society? Was there trauma and pain involved? Were they tricked or taken? I might not know the specifics, but I am certain the circumstances weren’t great. My parents’ situation was less drastic; they didn’t venture into unknown territory alone, but had family to rely on in their new world. As an adult, I moved too. 

Not continents away. Not an ocean away. Nothing too drastic. 

What I’ve learned so far is that moving doesn’t fix anything. In my parents’ case, their circumstances had changed, but their patterns had not. A lot of their mechanisms and trauma they passed down to me. Running can definitely make things easier, and more bearable. But I was still not living life for myself, I was still living life according to my parents’ rules. 

My depression became debilitating so I had to move back in with my parents for almost two years. It was rough, but I’m grateful. I relied on them as they once relied on their family—in foreign land because of my mental illness. I sought therapy. It’s given me a lot of stability and clarity. Being proud of how flexible and resilient I am? That’s still true, in part. But that was also me protecting myself by focusing on the good, and ignoring the damage. I’ve come to realize that a lot of my underlying issues stem from my uneasy upbringing, the chaotic and the stable years. 

I’ve moved to a new place. A house, my home, which I share with my partner. I live close to my parents, sometimes too close for comfort. My relationship with them is a work in progress, bound to be for a long time, but we’re all trying. To the best of our ability. And I’m not running, I’ve settled for the time being, and I’m confronting my issues head-on. 

Maybe I’m making history.

This is my first blog post. I’m finding it difficult to come up with something to write. The idea of sharing my thoughts, of showing myself to you, I find that terrifying. I’m more comfortable with writing about fictional characters than I am with writing about me. There’s such a fear of vulnerability, and my behavioral response is to shut down with nothing to say.

For as long as I can remember I’ve written my thoughts down in a journal. Not always consecutively, sometimes not even sensically, but it’s been the place I knew I could return to when I needed to sort out my feelings. There were no boundaries in my childhood home, so the safest place for my deepest and darkest desires, secrets, and thoughts weren’t shared in my journal. They remained locked and guarded inside my head. Other private thoughts were unshared with others, except for my diary.

“Dear diary, I don’t know how to say this, but I’m really happy with you. I can tell you anything, and you won’t have remarks or criticism. You won’t say anything at all, and that’s ok.” 

My first diary is this really cute notebook with a group of Dalmatians who are free to run and play around outside. What I really liked about it were the scented pages. To this day, when I open the notebook there’s that faint whiff of innocence and uninhibited dreams. 

As a child I wrote about whatever happened to me that day. My mother’s cooking, my dad’s arrival from work, a trip to the store. One-line sentences to describe my day. Sometimes friends and family wrote me little messages in my diary, per my request, which I would enjoy reading afterwards. Then there’s strange bantering that I no longer understand, only a faint whiff of that scent left. 

As a teen most of my diaries were filled with silly musings on a tv-show or rock band I loved, cringeworthy thirsting over celebrity crushes or—far worse—real live crushes, wild stories I wrote and imagined myself in, or laments about how no one understood me and my teen angst, goodbye’s to lost loved ones, angry words from painful experiences usually caused by my parents, and a yearly mention of my younger sister’s birthday. 

Then I stopped writing in my diary for a long time. I had nothing to say. 

I’ve reread my journal entries as an adult. In fact, I did so this week as I wondered what to write about in my first blog post—what to tell you about me. There’s six diaries in total from my youth. In them I wrote about my need for escapism (through music, tv-shows, movies, writing stories, partying when I was older), because my home life wasn’t that great. My teenage angst about not being understood? It wasn’t just teenage angst. 

The most painful discovery I made is how I can pinpoint the emotional abuse. My father laughed at my failings (coming in fourth during a Rhythmic Gymnastics competition for example), and ridiculed me in front of my extended family. My mother constantly compared me to my cousins who, in her eyes, excelled better at school and didn’t talk back to their parents. 

My thoughts and opinions didn’t matter. I just had to obey and do well. 

My parents didn’t know how to understand me, so they tried the next best thing: to control me, to shame me, to dismiss me. And it was suffocating. I have, to this day, such a yearning for freedom. But the older I became as a young adult, the more unrealistic that freedom seemed. So I shut my brain off and ignored my feelings. My escapist coping mechanisms were so effective that I didn’t notice the depression creep in: 

“I graduated from high school today. Thank God. I needed to. I’m finally done. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I did… but I can’t stop feeling sad.” 

*

“Been a bit down the last couple of days… I don’t know why…” 

All my conscious effort went into pursuing my studies, because all of my worth was tied into being a student. I did that for a long time. I found writing again through papers and essays, and a total of three theses. I started a blog about beauty and makeup, because I needed an outlet for my creativity and academia didn’t cut it. I was a functioning depressed person until I was no longer functioning—until I was no longer a person. My body wouldn’t cooperate with me anymore, too tired to keep ignoring all my buried pain. 

I needed help. I went to therapy. 

That was a few years ago. I’m not done yet. I’m still writing. I’m writing fiction again. I’ve created many short stories, and I’m working on my first book. I’ve also started journaling again. I’ve two diaries now. Still not writing consecutively, but I try my best to keep it sensical. The first is full of motivational and therapeutic strategies to continue my healing; in the second I write one-line sentences to describe my day. 

“Cooked dinner for myself and my partner.” 

“Did Yoga at home for 30 minutes.” 

“Let my feelings come out when they needed to. It felt good.” 

“Went to boxing class.”

“It’s ok to slow down.” 

Nothing grand. My current diaries feel less silly now that I’ve reread my first, which was full of dreams and one-line sentences. It shows me that there’s nothing wrong with being where I’m at right now. The little things matter. The little things remind me I have worth, always. 

So I’ll keep on writing. I know I have a voice. I’m working on what I have to say.