Category: 2026

This morning something small happened that made me see something much larger.

I was sitting outside having my breakfast when my mother came out and sat with me. We began talking, just the two of us. These conversations between my mother and me have always had a certain ease. We share similar rhythms. We both stay up late, we like the same films, we enjoy talking about ideas, sometimes we make reels together or take photographs. There is a familiarity in temperament between us that makes conversation flow.

But within moments my sister also came out and sat down.

Suddenly the space that had begun as a quiet conversation between a mother and her son became a three-way interaction. There was no private moment left. It struck me then that this is something that happens almost every time my mother and I begin talking.

And today I realised why it unsettles me.

It is not simply about interruption. It is about a deeper pattern of dependency that has quietly reshaped the structure of our household.

A Room Shared by Three Adults

My sister married in 2021. For the first six months she lived with her husband in his home. Then our mother fell ill, and my sister moved back.

Since 2022 she and her husband have lived in the same bedroom as my mother.

The room is roughly ten by twelve feet. My mother sleeps on a single bed while my sister and her husband occupy a double bed in another corner. All three adults share that room and the same bathroom.

In practical terms, my sister and her husband have not had a private domestic life since the first months of their marriage.

This arrangement did not emerge out of cruelty or neglect. It came out of concern. My mother is seventy-seven, and as age advances she sometimes shows signs of forgetfulness and confusion. My sister wants to be near her.

But what began as care has slowly hardened into something else: co-dependence.

When Care Becomes Co-dependence

Co-dependence is often misunderstood as love or loyalty. In reality, it is a psychological arrangement in which two people organise their lives so completely around each other that their individual identities begin to shrink.

My sister now manages many aspects of my mother’s daily life.

She reads her phone messages, helps compose replies, decides which calls to answer and which to ignore. In many ways she functions almost like a personal secretary as well as a daughter.

Their lives are deeply entangled.

And while this may appear devoted from the outside, such arrangements can quietly become unhealthy for both people involved.

One person becomes the centre of the other’s existence. The other becomes dependent on being needed.

The Cost to Other Relationships

This dynamic also affects relationships around them.

When my mother and I began speaking this morning, the conversation was normal. She asked me something and I responded. Because of her age she sometimes asks for repetition, and I answered again.

Then my sister interjected and asked her, “Why are you constantly looking at the watch?”

That small comment shifted the atmosphere instantly.

My mother reacted in a familiar way: “I just asked a question. Why are you both jumping down my throat?”

In that moment I knew exactly where the conversation was heading. Both my mother and my sister have a tendency to escalate disagreements into raised voices and shouting. It is something I cannot emotionally tolerate.

So I simply stood up and walked away.

It was not anger that made me leave. It was recognition.

I knew the pattern.

A Household Orbiting Around One Person

The deeper issue is that my sister’s life has begun to revolve entirely around my mother.

She no longer works. She spends most of her time in the room they share. Their routines, conversations, and decisions are intertwined.

When relationships reach this point of fusion, something subtle but important begins to disappear: autonomy.

A person stops building a life outside the relationship.

And this is where the long-term danger lies.

What Happens When the Centre Disappears

One of the most difficult truths about life is that every relationship eventually ends. Not because love fades, but because mortality exists.

My mother is seventy-seven. None of us can escape the fact that she will not be here forever.

When that day comes, the psychological consequences for someone in a co-dependent relationship can be devastating.

Without the person around whom their life revolved, they can feel disoriented, purposeless, and emotionally unmoored.

And it was something else in my life that made me realise this even more clearly.

A Lesson from my Furkid

On the 10th of March we lost Xena.

She had been a strong presence in our home. Zuri, our other dog, followed her everywhere — almost like a lamb following its mother. Zuri took cues from Xena: how to behave, where to go, how to respond to the world.

Since Xena’s passing, Zuri seems lost.

She wanders, unsure. She waits for cues that no longer come.

Watching her has been heartbreaking.

But it also made me think about how dependency works.

When one being becomes the centre of another’s emotional world, the loss of that centre leaves a vacuum that is difficult to fill.

Love Without Possession

There is nothing wrong with loving a parent deeply. There is nothing wrong with caring for them in old age.

But love should not require the erasure of one’s own life.

A healthy relationship allows space for individuality, privacy, and growth. A married couple should be able to build a life together. A daughter should be able to care for her mother without becoming psychologically fused with her.

When that balance disappears, the future becomes fragile.

For my sister, the danger is not only the present arrangement. It is the life that may follow after it.

Because when the person at the centre of a co-dependent relationship is gone, the person who built their entire world around them is left standing in an unfamiliar silence.

And learning how to live in that silence can be one of the hardest lessons life ever teaches.

I have often spoken about death with what I believed was realism.

When I spoke about Zach and Xena’s imminent passing this year, I believed I was simply acknowledging reality. The doctors had already told us in November that their time was short — a matter of months. I carried that knowledge quietly within me, almost like a preparation.

Somewhere inside, I even suspected that Zach would go first. And he did, in January.

What I did not anticipate was the violence of the pain that followed.

We tell ourselves that knowing something in advance will soften the blow. That if we prepare, if we brace ourselves, the fall will not hurt as much. But grief does not care for preparation. It arrives with its own force.

It takes the wind out of your sails.

I can literally feel my heart break.

I have spoken about death before in other contexts too — even about my mother. I know, with the clarity that comes from loving someone deeply, that one day she too will go. Death is the most certain event in every life. And yet, when that day arrives, I know it will devastate me in ways I cannot fully imagine today.

There is something strange about how I experience death. I often sense its approach. I can feel when the end is near. But when it finally happens, it still shatters me.

Knowing does not protect the heart.

Psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously described grief through what are now known as the five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They are often spoken of as if they are steps on a staircase — neat, sequential, and orderly.

But grief is rarely so obedient.

These stages are not destinations we visit once and leave behind. They are currents that move through us, sometimes overlapping, sometimes returning when we least expect them.

Denial is the mind’s first shield. It is the quiet disbelief that whispers, This cannot be real. Even when we know someone is dying, a part of us still behaves as though the moment will somehow not arrive. Denial protects us from the full force of the loss all at once. I have never gone through this stage though. (This could be the denial.)

Anger follows close behind. It may be directed at fate, at doctors, at the universe, at God, or even at the one who left us. It is the protest of the heart — the refusal to accept that something so loved could be taken away. Yes, I’ve felt this, mostly at myself. 

Bargaining is grief’s attempt to negotiate with the inevitable. If only I had done this. If only we had caught it sooner. What if I had tried one more treatment? These thoughts are not rational, but they arise from love’s desperate wish to undo what cannot be undone. Our family keeps doing this. My sister wants to meet the doctors. To find out what happened exactly. 

Depression is perhaps the stage most people recognise. It is the heavy stillness that follows the storm. The absence where presence once lived. It is the quiet realisation that the loss is real and permanent. I am feeling this keenly. 

And finally there is acceptance — not happiness, not relief, but a form of peace. Acceptance is the moment when grief finds a place to sit within us. The loss remains, but it no longer consumes every breath.

Yet even Kübler-Ross herself later clarified that these stages were never meant to be rigid or universal. Grief does not follow a timetable.

It moves like weather.

I know this because I have lived through grief before.

Years ago, I lost Zoe. At the time, the loss felt unbearable. I dreaded it even before it happened, and when it did, it devastated me in ways I thought I might never recover from.

But grief changes shape over time.

Thirteen years later, the pain is still there, but it has folded itself neatly into the corners of my memory. It no longer overwhelms my days. Sometimes I cry when I think of her, but those tears carry the quiet weight of accumulated years rather than the sharp edge of fresh loss.

Grief does not disappear.

It simply learns where to live.

These recent heartbreaks are different because they are new.

They arrive like waves crashing against my being.

There are moments when the grief rises suddenly, and I feel as though I cannot breathe. As though the air itself has thickened around me.

But I know something else too.

These waves will pass.

They always do.

Not because the love fades, but because the human heart slowly learns to carry its losses without collapsing beneath them.

And yet, even knowing that the pain will soften one day, I do not wish to rush through this anguish.

Because this grief has meaning.

It is the measure of my love for them — for all my children who came into my life with wagging tails, trusting eyes, and hearts that knew nothing but devotion.

I cannot say they would want me to suffer.

But I can say this: in feeling this pain, I understand the depth of how much I loved them.

And perhaps that is the quiet truth grief leaves behind.

Love does not end with death.

It simply changes its form.

Yesterday, I lost Xena.

Forty days earlier, I had lost Zach.

Two absences in such a short time create a strange quiet inside a house. The routines remain — the walks, the bowls, the doors opening and closing — but the life that animated those rituals has shifted. The house feels different, almost hollow in places where there used to be movement.

Zuri is still here. My gentle, playful child. I love her deeply.

But she is searching.

When we go out for walks, she looks back. As if expecting Xena to appear behind us. At night, when we enter the bedroom, she pauses and looks at the place where Xena used to sleep. Dogs understand space and routine far better than we imagine. For Zuri, the world still contains a missing presence she cannot quite explain.

And perhaps I am doing the same.

Xena had a way of loving that was very particular. She needed me around. Even if my partner tried to take her downstairs, she would wait beside me instead — quietly asking that I be the one to take her. When we left the house, she would stand by the door, hopeful that I would take her along.

She had chosen me.

Dogs do that sometimes. They bond with everyone, but they belong to one person. Xena belonged to me in that way. Life, for her, seemed better if I was part of it.

And so the house now holds not just silence, but memories of a constant presence that used to orbit around me.

In the middle of this grief, another thought has been forming in my mind: perhaps I should adopt another dog. A puppy, preferably. A female, if possible. I have always had a special connection with my girls — Chinese horses like Xena and Zoe, and the deep companionship that seems to come with them.

But the thought comes with hesitation.

Would it be unfair to Zuri?

Or perhaps it would help her. A companion. Someone to play with, to share the rhythms of the house.

Yet Zuri is timid, gentle, and sensitive. I would not want another dog to dominate or bully her. I have seen that happen before. Once, another puppy I fostered grew too rough with her, biting and chasing until she began jumping onto the sofa simply to escape him. I do not want that for her again.

But a young dog grows into the household hierarchy rather than trying to control it. A puppy would learn Zuri’s language slowly. She could become the elder sister instead of the one who retreats.

There is, in fact, a dog from Zuri’s own family in Chennai — a girl who has not been adopted even after a year and a half. She is intelligent and deserving of love. Yet part of me still wonders whether bringing an adult dog into the house might be overwhelming for Zuri.

So perhaps patience is the wiser path.

Perhaps I should wait a month or two. Allow the house to settle into its new rhythm. Let Zuri understand that the spaces she searches will remain empty. And then, when the time is right, perhaps a small soul born this year will appear — one that needs a home, one that might grow up within the love that already lives here.

A new dog would not replace Zach and Xena. Like they didn’t replace Zoe, and Diana and Rolfe and Bonzo. 

Nothing replaces bonds like that. Each one was unique in his or her own way. 

Some animals come into our lives and leave behind a particular warmth — a way the house feels, a way love moves through the rooms. If another dog comes, it will simply grow inside the space my past kids helped create.

For now, though, there is just Zuri and me.

And sometimes, when we walk, she still turns her head to look behind us.

As if the pack is not yet complete.