The 13th Time

As I lay on my bed, exhausted, I thought about what happened with my son today.

For the 12th time, I had politely told him the same thing. 12 times. The same request. The same explanation. The same patience. But he didnot do. 

By the thirtheeth time, I was tired. Mentally drained. Frustrated.

And I shouted. Magic, He listened immediately.

As silence filled the room, a thought crossed my mind:

"If shouting works so quickly, why didn't I just shout at the first time?"

If parenting had data & analytics, the report would read: 

"Polite requests -> 0% conversion. Shouting ->100% engagement (reponse Rate less than 0.001 seconds.😆)

But the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I became.

Because parenting isn't just about getting children to obey. It's about teaching them how to become good.

And that's when my mind wandered back to my own childhood.

Many of us grew up in homes where every household item had a secondary purpose: A Weapon for beating children.

The belt wasn't just a belt. The dosa karandi wasn't just for making dosas. The comb, the scale, the newspaper, the towel, even the legendary saattai (whip) every item in the house seemed to have a hidden job description.

Primary purpose: Household use.

Secondary purpose: To beat and Correct our behavior

Back then, the definition of a good parent was simple: the stricter, the better. 

If a child misbehaved and the parents didn't beat them, relatives would arrive with free parenting advice: "You are spoiling the child! Beat and Rise" (adichu thuvachu valathu, lol)

"In our days, one look from the father was enough!"

But as a kid, I lived in constant fear that any household object could suddenly receive a career upgrade. Like Anniyan switching personalities, a harmless comb could transform into a weapon used to beat me.

Looking back now, I know my parents loved me deeply. But somehow, my memory has preserved those beatings in crystal-clear detail.

I don't remember what I ate on a random Tuesday in 1998. But I can still remember exactly why I got beaten that one afternoon.

The funny thing is, the beatings were usually for "discipline." Yet even today, I can't remember what rule I broke. I only remember the dramatic beating and shouting performance that followed.

But enough about my childhood survival stories.

Let's come back to the present, where I had just shouted at my son after 12 times.

My son listened after I shouted. But I don't want fear to become the language between us.

I want trust. I want respect. I want him to listen because he understands, not because he is afraid.

Parenting is strange that way. Sometimes we repeat ourselves eleven, 20  times and feel like we are failing. Yet those 12 patient conversations may matter far more than the one moment of anger that finally gets a result.

Children may remember what we teach them.

But they also remember how we made them feel.

That night, lying on my bed, I wasn't proud of the shout. I wasn't devastated by it either. It was simply a reminder that parenting is not about perfection.

It's about trying again tomorrow. With a little more patience.

A little more understanding. And hopefully, one less shout.

When Silence Becomes Heavier Than Words

There comes a point where explaining your pain feels pointless. You speak, but it feels like talking to a wall. I realized this slowly, not in one just moment, but through a series of small, exhausting incidents.

After hearing complaints about me being shared by a person casually with others, I chose silence. I accepted the blame, not because I agreed, but because I was too tired to defend myself. Sometimes, it feels easier to carry the blame than to keep proving you deserve to be heard or solved. 

It’s exhausting when the people you turn to for a soft landing or a supportive shoulder don’t even bother to support you. Even if they had two additional ears, they would still ignore you, simply because they take you for granted.

I held it in for two days, hoping when I finally shared it, I would receive at least a little comfort. Instead, I recieved igonreance. 

There were other moments too. Times when I needed support not dramatic gestures, just presence. Just someone standing beside me, showing I mattered. But that support never came. And over time, the absence of care started hurting more than any harsh words.

And then there’s something harder to say out loud. abuse. Not just emotional, but physical. What hurts even more is realizing that this is not “normal.” That other women around you are treated with basic respect, while you are left questioning your worth.

So, what is the real problem here?

The deeper issue many women face is being unheard, unsupported, and made to feel invisible in their own lives.