A few days ago, I was sitting at my aunt’s house looking through old photographs. There were photographs of me at different ages, in different stages of my life, surrounded by different people and living through different versions of myself. Normally, looking through old family albums would be nostalgic. I might laugh at my hair, remember where we were, point out Mum or Raja in a photograph, and move on to the next one. But this time felt different. As I looked at those photographs, I found myself feeling something I hadn’t expected. I could see the different Kirans, but I could also feel something underneath them. I could feel the girl who was trying to fit in, trying to be accepted, trying to be enough. I could feel the fear and anxiety that sat underneath some of those versions of me, even though I wasn’t consciously analysing any of it at the time.
I wasn’t simply looking at photographs of my younger self. I was beginning to see her.
There is a particular kind of tenderness that comes when you look back at yourself with the eyes you have now. I could see things in those photographs that I couldn’t possibly have understood when they were taken. I could see a girl, and then a young woman, learning how to navigate the world, learning how to belong, learning how to be loved and accepted, and perhaps learning that being good enough sometimes felt like something she had to earn. I didn’t know then that those thoughts would follow me to the cabin, and I certainly didn’t expect them to come rushing to the surface a few days later.
It happened today.
It started with Dad
This morning, I was at the cabin in the Norwegian Highlands, settling into my first proper day of solitude after a very busy few days with family. I had been looking forward to this time alone, and I had written about my sabbatical, about quality solitude and about not needing to be anything to anyone.
The Cabin Diaries - Day 1: My Sabbatical Has Changed
It is only 9.32 on Monday morning, and I already know what today’s Cabin Diaries needs to be about: Sabbatical.
I imagined a quiet day of tea, emails, writing, mountains, and simply being Kiran. Then Dad missed his flight.
The airport train he was travelling on had a power outage, which meant he missed his connection. The airport train personnel told him they would sort everything out, but they didn’t. What followed was hours of phone calls as I tried to work out how to get him home to India. There were problems accessing his bank account because his BankID password had been changed, the information on the website kept changing, and while I was already stressed and trying to solve everything, I accidentally booked a flight for the wrong date. The ticket was non-refundable, and I couldn’t make any changes immediately.
I was trying to fix everything, but underneath all the practical problems, something else was happening. Dad was disappointed, and I heard that familiar disappointed sigh.
It was astonishing how quickly it transported me somewhere else.
I wasn’t 49 anymore. I was a child, and I was afraid Dad was going to tell me off.
It wasn’t mild worry or ordinary stress about getting him home. I was genuinely afraid. I started shaking, and the anxiety that came over me felt strangely familiar. Then I realised why. I hadn’t felt this since I was a child.
The little girl was still there
What surprised me most wasn’t that I was anxious. It was realising that this particular kind of fear still existed inside me.
I honestly thought that version of me was gone.
I’ve spent most of my adult life being capable. I’ve become the woman who sorts things out, figures things out, makes things happen, and carries on. I’ve built businesses, raised a child, navigated enormous life changes, created a Home, built a life, and learned how to stand on my own two feet. And yet today, one disappointed sigh from Dad reached straight through all of that and found the little girl who was afraid of getting something wrong.
The little girl who wanted her Dad’s approval. The little girl who had learnt that disappointing him felt dangerous. The little girl who, somewhere along the way, had absorbed the belief that perhaps she simply wasn’t good enough for him.
And that last part hurt, because I realised that I had spent much of my life wanting my Dad’s approval, and I never really felt that I got it. I don’t say that with anger, and I don’t even know that I’m saying it as an accusation. I’m simply acknowledging something I hadn’t allowed myself to fully see before. There was a little girl who wanted her father’s approval very badly, and today she was terrified of losing it.
Suddenly, the photographs made sense
I keep thinking about those photographs now. Those different versions of me. The girl trying to fit in, the young woman trying to be accepted, the woman learning how to navigate relationships and expectations, all those different hairstyles, clothes, expressions, and stages of life.
Those women were adaptive. They were trying to work out how to belong with the information and emotional resources they had at the time. They were doing their best to navigate a world they didn’t fully understand.
Perhaps that’s why looking at those photographs felt different this time. I wasn’t judging any of those versions of Kiran. I wasn’t looking at them and thinking about what I would do differently now. I was looking at them and thinking, “Oh, sweetheart. I see what you were trying to do.”
You were trying to be enough. You were trying to belong. You were trying to be loved. You were trying to get it right.
And I felt her pain. I felt her fear. I felt her anxiety.
Perhaps she has been waiting a very long time for someone to notice.
She doesn’t need fixing
When something like this surfaces, there can be an instinct to immediately turn it into work. Find the lesson. Heal the wound. Reparent the child. Change the pattern. Do something with it.
But I don’t think I need to do any of that, especially not today.
The little Kiran doesn’t need another project. She has already spent enough of her life trying to become the version of herself that would finally be enough. Perhaps she simply needed to be heard.
And she was.
Today, I heard her. I heard how frightened she was. I heard how desperately she wanted Dad’s approval. I heard the anxiety underneath the need to get everything right. I heard the part of her that thought making a mistake meant she was going to be told off.
And I didn’t tell her she was being ridiculous. I didn’t tell her she was overreacting. I didn’t tell her that she should know better because she’s 49. I simply understood.
The adult Kiran was there too
There is something else I want to remember about today. The little girl wasn’t the only version of me in the room. The adult Kiran was there too.
She was the one making phone calls, trying to get Dad home, dealing with the practicalities, trying to access accounts, finding another flight, and continuing to solve one problem after another. When the fear became too much, she reached out. I called my brother after all of it was done, because he grew up with the same Dad, the same family dynamics, and the same disappointed sighs. He understood without me having to explain everything, and he helped calm me down.
That matters to me.
Perhaps growing up doesn’t mean the frightened child disappears forever. Perhaps it means that when she becomes frightened, the adult version of us is there now. She can say, “I’ve got you.” She can ask for help. She can recognise what is happening. She can sit beside her rather than abandon her.
And perhaps that is what I did today.
I didn’t come to the cabin expecting this
This morning, I wrote about not knowing what this week would bring. I meant that quite literally. I didn’t want to arrive here with a rigid agenda or a list of things I had to accomplish. I wanted to go with the flow and allow the week to unfold.
I certainly didn’t expect my first day of solitude to bring me face to face with a part of myself I didn’t realise was still there.
But maybe that’s the thing about solitude. When everything gets quiet, you sometimes hear what has been underneath the noise.
I have spent the last few days surrounded by family. I’ve loved seeing everyone after a year, but it was busy, emotional, and overstimulating. I arrived here craving quiet. I needed physical, mental, and emotional rest after eight months of life.
And perhaps I do.
But today has reminded me that rest isn’t always empty space. Sometimes, when we finally stop moving, something that has been waiting underneath everything else gets the opportunity to speak.
Today, the little Kiran spoke.
And I’m glad she did.
I don’t know what comes next
I don’t know whether anything else will surface this week. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. I don’t know whether I’ll spend the next few days editing my book, walking through the mountains, drinking tea, journaling, doing Pilates, or staring out of the window. I don’t know whether I’ll have more revelations or simply enjoy the quiet.
For once, I don’t need to know.
I came here to be with myself, and today I met a part of myself I didn’t know was still there. That’s enough.
I can look at those old photographs differently now. I can see the many Kirans who came before me, not as women who got things wrong, but as women who were doing their best to find their way. And I can look at the little girl in those photographs and say, “I see you. I know you were scared. I know you wanted to be enough. I know how much you wanted Dad’s approval. You don’t have to work so hard anymore.”
Because she is still part of me, but she isn’t alone anymore.
Kiran is here too.
And perhaps that’s what this week’s sabbatical is really going to be about. Not becoming someone new, or fixing what is broken - because nothing is - but making enough room for all the versions of myself to finally come home.
A little update before I end the day. I spoke to Dad again this evening to check that he was okay, and we talked about everything that happened today. I honestly didn’t expect what came next. Dad apologised and said, “I’m sorry for causing you so much stress. Don’t worry about anything; money comes and goes. It’s not a big deal. You relax now and enjoy your cabin.”
After everything that had been stirred up in me today, hearing those words brought an enormous sense of relief. I had spent hours (even years) carrying the fear of disappointing him and worrying about getting things wrong, only to hear my Dad tell me that it was okay, that the money wasn’t important, and that I should simply relax and enjoy my time here. I don’t think I could have written a more unexpected ending to the first day of my sabbatical.
Kiran x
Kiransinghuk.com | The Sattva Collective
This is so beautiful, Kiran. Perhaps healing is not about leaving our younger selves behind, but becoming the woman they needed beside them all along. ❤️