The other day, in the middle of yet another argument, my mother said something that stayed with me long after the noise had settled.
“You were so loving once upon a time. You’ve changed.”
There it was. A sentence loaded with nostalgia, accusation, and control—wrapped up as concern.
And something in me snapped.
Because what she calls “loving” was, in truth, obedience. It was a version of me that survived by bending, by yielding, by staying quiet in a house where silence was safer than expression. It was the child who had dreams, who thought romantically about life, who believed that love could fix things. But that child also lived in fear, in trauma, and in a system that demanded submission.
So yes, I have changed.
And I refuse to apologise for it.
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I grew up in a household shaped by control, fear, and violence. My father was abusive—physically so—and my mother, while present, was not protective in the ways that mattered.
She provided the basics: food, clothing, a roof over our heads. And for that, I acknowledge her effort. But parenting is not a checklist of survival needs. It is also about safety, emotional protection, and standing up for your child when they are in danger.
That did not happen.
It took my father nearly killing me—for her to finally separate from him. By then, the damage had already been done. Years of fear had carved themselves into my psyche. The child she remembers as “loving” was also a child who had learned to shrink, to endure, and to survive.
So when she says I’ve changed, I want to ask her:
Changed from what? From fear to awareness? From silence to voice?
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If my childhood shaped me, 2014 broke something fundamental within me.
That was the year my mother and my sister chose to support a political ideology that directly threatened everything I am. As a gay man, this wasn’t abstract politics. This wasn’t a debate over policy or governance. This was about identity, dignity, and survival.
People often say, “Don’t let politics divide families.”
But what they fail to understand is this: when politics targets your identity, it is no longer politics. It is personal.
My mother and sister became a unit—aligned in their beliefs—while I stood alone on the other side. Over time, the few family members who understood me, who supported me, passed away. And I found myself in a house where I no longer felt seen, understood, or safe in a deeper, emotional sense.
The fracture wasn’t loud. It didn’t happen overnight. It was slow, silent, and irreversible.
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What hurt wasn’t just disagreement—it was betrayal.
To support something that invalidates your own child’s identity is not a neutral act. It is a choice. And choices have consequences.
Even years later, when perspectives seemed to shift, when there appeared to be some realisation of what had unfolded in the country, it felt too late. Because the damage had already been internalised.
If you stand by something harmful long enough, you cannot simply step away from it and expect everything to return to what it was.
Some things, once broken, do not reset.
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Then came 2021.
The year the world collapsed in ways we were not prepared for.
I lost my aunt—one of the few people who had been in my corner—to COVID during the devastating Delta wave in India. She died waiting for a hospital bed. Waiting for oxygen. Waiting in a system that had failed its people.
There are no words for that kind of loss. Only silence and anger.
My sister and I both came dangerously close to death during that time. It was a moment that should have brought clarity, compassion, and unity.
But even then, I saw things that I could not reconcile with. The disconnect between reality and belief persisted.
And something in me finally gave way.
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The turning point wasn’t just the loss. It was the decision to leave.
I walked out of the house.
Because I realised I could not continue living in a space where my existence, my identity, and my beliefs were constantly in quiet conflict with those around me.
Only after I left did something begin to shift.
Perhaps it was fear of losing me. Perhaps it was a genuine change of heart. Perhaps it was a delayed recognition of reality.
But by then, I had already crossed a threshold within myself.
I had chosen myself.
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What I see now, more clearly than ever, is the deeply co-dependent relationship between my mother and my sister.
It is suffocating. Restrictive. Built on control and need rather than freedom and growth.
My mother does not allow her daughter to be fully independent. And my sister, in turn, has grown into that dependency. It is a cycle that feeds itself.
And I stand outside of it, unable—and now, quite unwilling—to participate.
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Over the years, I have changed.
Therapy has forced me to confront my past. To revisit wounds I had buried. To understand the patterns that shaped me.
I have become more aware. More articulate. More grounded in my own truth.
But also, perhaps, more cynical.
Where I once saw possibility, I now often see limitation. Where I once dreamed, I now assess. There is a quiet nihilism that has settled in—a sense that the world, fundamentally, does not change as easily as we hope.
And yet, even in that, there is strength.
Because I no longer live in illusion.
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So, Am I Less Loing?
When my mother says I am no longer “loving,” what she is really saying is this:
I am no longer compliant.
I no longer accept things without question.
I no longer stay silent to keep the peace.
I no longer prioritise comfort over truth.
And if that is what she means, then yes—I have changed.
But I would argue that I have not become less loving.
I have simply stopped abandoning myself in the name of love.
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My mother did what she could. I can acknowledge that.
But doing what you can does not erase what was not done.
And love, real love, is not about preserving a version of someone that was easier to manage. It is about accepting who they have become—even when that person is no longer convenient.
I am no longer the child she remembers.
I am the man who survived that childhood.
That difference changes everything.
And that is all that should matter.
Hearts Still Care 
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